Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 282- Trying to Remain Sane

The cold struck through the silk and she gasped — the sharp intake of cold metal against warm skin — and then she was sitting on it.

Perched on the top of her own casino’s garbage bin in a back alley at two in the morning with a torn dress and a wet bra and no cane and no gun and absolutely nothing in her available repertoire of preparation that had accounted for any of this.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

The difference in height now — her elevated, her eye level rising to match his, the proximity of their faces with no reaching required for either of them. He stood between her knees. The warm, structural reality of him occupying the space between her legs as casually as though it had always been his.

’This is not happening.’

His hand moved to her chest.

He took her breast in his hand.

The full, cupped grip of it — his palm rising under the weight of her, fingers spreading around the curve, the bra still in place but entirely irrelevant as his hand closed and squeezed with the slow, deep, kneading quality of someone learning texture. Her breast swelled between his fingers, the generous, soft weight of it shifting and pressing back against his grip — the jiggle of it as he worked, the warm bounce as his palm moved —

"Hhnn—"

His other hand found her other breast. Both of them, kneading — the rhythm of it, the alternating deep press-and-release, her breasts shifting and resettling between his palms with the full, heavy quality of them, the silk slipping, the bra straining.

He leaned in.

His mouth found her cleavage — the warm, open press of his lips against the inner swell of her, the wet drag of his tongue tracing the line where her breasts pressed together — the specific obscenity of a man mouthing the valley of a woman’s chest while his hands were full of her, the breath of him warm and close between her breasts as he kissed down the center of her sternum.

"Hah—"

Her hand went to his hair.

She had not intended to put her hand in his hair. It arrived there on its own authority.

He kissed back up. Found the edge of her bra cup. And then his fingers went under it —

He pulled the cup down.

The fabric folding back, the underwire giving, her breast spilling free — the full, heavy, warm release of it out of the bra, pale skin catching the cold alley air, her nipple drawn tight and dark and exposed — and before the air had touched it for a full second his mouth was there.

"Aahn~!!"

The sound leaving her before she could close her throat around it. Raw, high, the broken cry of a woman whose nipple had just been taken by a mouth that was not gentle and not unkind and was simply thorough — the hard, wet suction of it, his tongue pressing flat against the peak and rolling, the wet heat spreading out from that one point like something dropped into still water.

Her fingers tightened in his hair.

"S— stop—" The word arriving in the broken, stuttering quality of a sentence that did not believe in itself. "Someone — someone will see—"

He sucked harder.

"Ahnn~!! Hmh—"

"Raven—" Her voice cracked on his name. "The — the staff uses this exit, the kitchen—"

He bit.

The gentle, deliberate, informational quality of teeth closing around the underside of her breast — not her nipple, the soft flesh below it, the bite that said ’I heard you’ and ’this changes nothing’ with equal clarity.

"Nghh—?!"

Her other hand — the one that was not in his hair — slammed against the metal of the bin beside her hip. The impact ringing against the steel, cold under her palm, the full, embarrassing evidence that she needed something to grab. Her spine arched forward, pressing her breast deeper into his mouth, her body conducting itself with complete autonomy and she was not being consulted.

’I told him to stop.’

’My body is not stopping.’

’My body is doing the opposite of stopping.’

His hand moved.

Down.

The slow, deliberate quality of a hand at her hip, sliding inward, moving along her inner thigh — the silk riding up as his hand moved under it, the cold air finding her skin as the dress gathered — his palm warm against the inside of her thigh, moving upward with the same unhurried, attending quality of a man in no hurry to arrive anywhere.

She knew where it was going.

’Don’t,’ she thought.

’Don’t allow—’

His hand found her.

The flat, full contact of his palm pressing against her between her legs through the thin fabric of her underwear — the direct, unambiguous pressure of it — and she made a sound against her will that had no linguistic content whatsoever.

"Ah—!! Hkk—"

He did not move his hand. He just — held it there. The pressure of it. The warm, enormous, attending weight of a hand that had arrived and was letting her feel the fact of its arrival before it did anything with it.

He sucked her nipple at the same moment he pressed down.

"AANH~!!"

The sound bouncing off the brick wall. Her hand flying to her own mouth — the reflex, the desperate, mortified quality of a casino owner muffling herself in her own back alley — her palm pressed against her parted lips, the sound still leaking through the gaps between her fingers, bitten and muffled and impossible to fully contain.

His hand began to move.

The slow, circular, deep-pressure quality of his palm rubbing against her through the fabric — the wet fabric, she registered distantly, the fabric that had been dry when the evening started and was emphatically not dry now — his hand working in slow, deliberate rotations, the heel of his palm finding the place that mattered and pressing there with the flat, informed attention of someone who had mapped this territory and knew where north was.

His mouth still on her breast.

Both things at once.

The dual-input quality of it — his mouth working her nipple with the wet, pulling, suckling suction, the sound of it a low and obscene "mlk, mlk—" against her skin, and his hand between her legs working in the slow, grinding rhythm that was finding something in her she had not known was this accessible —

’I’ve done this to myself.’

The thought arriving in the flat, honest quality of a woman making an accurate comparison.

’I have touched myself before. I know what that feels like. This is not what that feels like.’

’This is in my— this is—’

The heat. The specific, deep, interior heat of it — not the surface sensation of fingers against skin, but something that went below that, that registered in her stomach, in her lower abdomen, in the hollow place below her ribs. Something that had its address in her body at a depth she had not known was reachable from outside.

’I feel this in my womb.’

The word arriving in her mind with the specific, surprised quality of a woman naming something she has just discovered.

His finger pressed harder.

The direct, sharp, deliberate pressure — no longer the broad, circular palm but two fingers now, finding the place through the wet fabric and pressing in, the fabric pushing inward, the obscene, saturated intimacy of it —

"Nnh—!! Hnh—!! Ahnn—!!~"