QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 87: Who am I [M]

Chapter 87 – Evelyne POV

"...Don’t stop."

The words leave before I can pull them back, soft but shaking—like my chest might cave in around them. A plea.

She doesn’t stop.

Daphne moves with that sa maddening confidence I’ve only ever seen in soldiers or saints.

The top of my nightdress is tugged down in one motion, the fabric rustling like a secret in the dark. My breath catches. I should be ashad—but I’m not. Not when her gaze darkens like a storm passing over the sea, like I’ve just beco the center of it.

"Gods," she murmurs, and her thumb grazes the top of my chest.

My skin is already aching for her—every breath feels like it drags against the inside of my ribs. She leans down slowly, deliberately, and kisses just above my heart. Then lower.

Then lower still.

The press of her mouth to my skin makes arch without thinking.

"Sensitive?" she teases, warm breath fanning across a place I’ve never let anyone touch.

"Good."

I dig my nails into her shoulders, desperate for sothing to hold on to. I’ve always been composed. Controlled. But right now, my body has never felt less like mine—it belongs to her. Entirely.

When she takes one of my breasts into her mouth, I cry out. The sound is soft, startled, shafully honest. Her tongue circles once, twice, and I’m already shaking. It feels like too much. It’s not enough.

"Daphne," I gasp, but she only hums around , sending vibrations straight down my spine.

She lifts her head and kisses again—fierce and deep—while her hand trails down between us. Fingers skim my waist, then slip beneath the bunched fabric of my nightdress. The tips brush the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh, the part of no one has ever touched this way.

My entire body locks up.

"Still with ?" she whispers.

I nod, lips parted.

"Please..."

She doesn’t need more than that.

Her fingers slide through the slick heat between my legs, and I jolt—half in shock, half in pleasure so sharp I can barely breathe. She strokes once, slow and searching, and I’m already trembling.

"Look at you," she murmurs. "So ready... you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?"

"Daphne—"

She silences with a kiss, then starts to move her hand again. Her rhythm is torturous, patient, like she’s trying to map every part of through touch alone. I can feel every press, every graze of her knuckle, and when she slips a finger inside , I grip her wrist with a startled gasp.

"Is this okay?" she breathes against my neck.

"Yes," I gasp.

She moves deeper, curling her fingers, and I nearly sob. My hips move without permission, chasing the rhythm she’s set. Her lips find my throat, then my ear, murmuring things I can’t even understand anymore.

My legs are shaking, one of them thrown over her hip for leverage I didn’t know I needed. She holds like I’m breakable—but ruins all the sa.

She leans in to kiss , and I don’t recognize myself anymore. Sothing wild claws at my insides, desperate and breathless.

I thread my fingers into her hair, soft and damp against my palm, and I pull—hard.

Her head tilts, a soft groan spilling from her lips like praise. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t stop. Instead, she kisses harder, with that sa fierce need she moves with everywhere else—fighting, painting, loving.

Her mouth moves with mine in sync, as if she already knows my rhythms. My anxious, aching, eager rhythm.

She drinks in like I’m sothing sacred.

The heat between us is unbearable and perfect. Her body presses into the mattress like she’s trying to mold us together—like the space between our skin is the only thing she wants to erase. My fingers claw at her shoulders, her back, grounding myself against the only thing tethering to this world right now: her.

Am I loud? I don’t know.

The sounds I make are nothing I’ve ever heard from myself before—soft whimpers, hitched breaths, maybe even a cry. The kind of sound you make when sothing inside you is breaking open for the very first ti.

And I am breaking.

The sensations consu , until I’m nothing but the thrum of my own heartbeat and the slow build of sothing cresting inside . I bury my face against her throat, biting down just to stay here—to keep from unraveling too soon.

"I can’t," I whisper, breathless. "I—Daphne—"

"You can," she says, voice rough and coaxing. Her lips brush my ear.

"Let go," she says again, but this ti, there’s a certain satisfaction in her voice.

"Trust ."

And I do. I can’t help it. I give in, a single, sharp exhale escaping my lips as I lose myself to her, to the feeling of being completely consud by sothing so wild and inevitable.

I’m not aware of the sounds I’m making, but her eyes are on —always on —like she’s studying the way I unravel for her. She’s playing like an instrunt, and I don’t care.

I don’t care because it’s her, it’s Daphne, and for the first ti in my life, I feel as if I’m actually alive. Every nerve in my body is on fire. My pulse is erratic, the warmth spreading from the place where her fingers are pressing into .

Then her other hand—damn it, her other hand—covers my mouth, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’ve been loud. Very loud. Too loud.

Maybe I should care, but I don’t. I can’t.

"Shh," she whispers, her lips brushing against my ear, her voice as soft as silk, even as her hold on tightens. "We don’t want to get caught now, do we?"

Caught? What?

Who am I ?

I fall apart in her arms, a cry strangled in my throat as my body tightens and releases, wave after wave crashing through until I’m wrecked.

When I blink my eyes open again, she’s watching . Her fingers stroke soothing circles on my thigh now, her other hand laced with mine against the pillow.

I’m breathing like I’ve just survived sothing. Or maybe just been reborn.

She leans in and kisses my cheek.

"You were magnificent," she whispers.

I can’t speak yet. But I smile, dazed and flushed and completely undone.