QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 162: Always does

Chapter 162 – Estela POV

Daphne’s favorite pasti—aside from tornting my chest until even the air feels obscene—is eating like I’m her last al.

Like I’m the only thing that’s ever tasted right on her tongue.

And right now? She’s starving.

My breath stutters as her shoulders press between my thighs, bare and warm, while her mouth moves like a slow prayer. I’m seated on the edge of the bed, knees parted, gripping the sheets like they can tether to earth. They can’t. Not really. Not when she touches like this.

Her fingers press into my hips, firm and steady, as her tongue flicks against , slow at first—teasing. Like she wants to savor my unraveling one layer at a ti. I gasp, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut. The ceiling above blurs into the dim, golden light of the room, but I rember its patterns, its grooves—I’ve morized them from nights like this, where all I can do is look up and feel.

The hum of the air conditioner becos louder, almost rhythmic. My own heartbeat drowns out everything else, pulsing in my ears, my throat, between my legs. And Daphne—god—Daphne just keeps going.

She murmurs sothing I can’t catch, lips brushing against sensitive skin, sending shivers shooting up my spine. The vibration of her voice—low, amused, hungry—reverberates through like an aftershock.

"Still with ?" she asks, lifting her eyes just enough to et mine.

Barely.

I nod, but it’s more a twitch than anything confident.

Daphne smiles—smirks, really—and presses her tongue flat against , dragging slow, deliberate heat over the part of that’s already aching for her. I cry out. Not loud. Just a breathy, helpless sound that makes her pause, pleased with herself, before she continues.

Her hands—god, those hands—shift slightly, thumbs stroking along the tops of my thighs while her mouth works lower, deeper. My toes curl, feet flexing against her shoulder blades. I’m trying to keep quiet, trying to keep still, but it’s impossible when she kisses like she ans to ruin .

And she’s succeeding.

The sound—her tongue moving, her lips sealing over , the wet, obscene softness of it all—should be humiliating. Instead, it’s intoxicating. My chest rises and falls in uneven waves, nipples still aching from earlier, and every nerve in my body feels like it’s leaning toward her.

I glance down.

She’s beautiful like this.

Hair tousled. Shoulders tense with focus. That maddening glint in her eyes like she’s not just eating —she’s claiming .

My thighs tremble. The sounds I make stop resembling words. I reach for her hair, threading my fingers through the silky strands, tugging just a little—because I need sothing to hold onto, sothing to anchor , or I’ll float right out of my skin.

She groans in response to the tug, and I feel it—all of it.

My hips jerk forward instinctively, and she doesn’t stop . She lets move, lets rock slightly into her mouth, sets the pace and then abandons it just to drive mad. Her nose brushes the crease of my thigh, and her tongue strokes again—precise, sinful.

My grip on the sheets tightens. I try to say her na, but it cos out broken. "Daph..."

She pulls back for a mont, kissing the inside of my thigh, leaving a wet trail that cools instantly in the air. Her breath fans against , and I shiver.

"Tell if it’s too much," she says, voice low, gravelly.

"Too much?" I laugh—except it’s more like a gasp. "You’re not even close."

She raises an eyebrow, then lowers her mouth again—and this ti, it’s not teasing. It’s hungry. She licks, sucks, explores, and I feel like I’m going to break apart molecule by molecule.

I fall backward against the bed, too overwheld to sit upright anymore. My legs spread wider without conscious thought, back arching, trying to pull her closer. My hands reach for her again—her hair, her shoulders, anything solid in the haze she’s creating inside .

The pressure builds, tight and hot and trembling under my skin. She feels it too—I know she does. Her pace shifts, matching the rhythm of my breath, chasing my release with the sa precision she uses to fire a gun.

She knows my body like a map.

Like sothing she’s morized down to the hidden corners.

I cry out as her mouth seals over again, tongue flicking just right, fingers anchoring my hips—and that’s it. That’s all it takes.

Pleasure crashes over like a wave, sharp and blinding and endless.

I tremble—full-body, desperate tremors—and bite my lip to keep from screaming her na too loud. My legs close around her shoulders instinctively, holding her there while I ride it out.

When it finally recedes, when the static in my mind fades enough for coherent thought to return, she’s still there. Kissing gently. Licking softly. Like she’s apologizing for breaking .

She pulls back slowly, hands running up my thighs, then over my stomach, until she’s hovering above .

I’m still catching my breath.

"You’re dangerous," I murmur.

Daphne grins, leaning in to press a kiss to my lips—slow and deep, letting taste myself on her tongue. I kiss her back lazily, too blissed out to care, too content to stop.

"That good?" she asks, brushing a hand over my cheek.

"You know it was."

She hums, curling beside on the bed and dragging the covers over us both. My body still hums with aftershocks, thighs sore in the best way. She tucks into her chest, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

"You okay?" she asks softly.

I nod into her neck, tracing idle patterns on her ribs. "More than okay."

There’s a pause. Then, her lips against my forehead.

"Good. Because I’m not done with you yet."

I laugh into her skin. "At this rate, I might ascend."

"Promise?" she murmurs, and I can hear the smirk in her voice.

I reach down and lightly pinch her side. "Shut up and hold ."

And she does.

She always does.