Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion Chapter 184- Open Your Thighs

Wait.

She turned her head.

At the tree line.

The specific, dark shapes of trees. And between them — the moonlight catching at — fabric. The pale ghost of fabric in the dark. And beside it, another shape. And another.

Her eyes adjusted.

Four shapes.

Standing at the tree line, in the shadow of the palms, not moving.

Watching.

Her breath stopped.

They were all there.

All four of them. Celia — she could see Celia’s hair, the specific shape of it. Gia beside her. Aisha half-behind a palm trunk. ijin, furthest back, arms folded.

They were watching.

Watching ’her.’

Sothing happened.

Sothing she was not expecting and could not explain and did not have the language for in the mont it happened.

The heat that hit her was — different from the heat she had been managing for the last ten minutes. This was new. This was the specific, terrible warmth of being seen. Of being on the sand in the moonlight with his hands on her and her legs apart and her nipples peaked and her whole body displayed and her four companions standing in the dark watching every single second of it.

She was being watched.

And her body—

Her body—

The moan that ca out of her was louder than anything she had made yet.

"’AHN~♡’"

Not from what his hands were doing, though his hands were still doing it. From the realization. From the watched-ness of it. From the specific, unfamiliar, burning knowledge that four won who knew her were seeing this, were seeing her like this, were seeing her laid out in the moonlight getting touched by a man none of them had known three days ago and she was—

"’AAHNGH~♡♡—’"

His fingers curved inside her, pressing and circling, and she felt the thing building that had been building since the boulder, since the body count, since she had been lying on the mat pressing her palm flat against it trying to keep herself from making a sound while Nara said ’brown nipples, thick, made to be—’

She squirted.

Hard.

Without penetration. Without his cock. Just his fingers and his words and the moon and the four won in the trees watching her with flushed faces and wide eyes as she ca apart on the wet sand, her thighs clamping around his hand and her back arching and the sound coming out of her completely without her permission—

"’HIEKK~♡♡♡—AAAHN~♡—’"

The fluid, hot and imdiate, spraying over his hand, soaking the sand beneath her, her whole body shaking with the convulsion of it.

She lay there.

Heaving.

Her chest rising and falling. The stars above her. The moon.

And at the tree line, four won who had just seen exactly what had happened.

’Why,’ she thought, distantly, through the shaking. ’Why am I—’

Why was the watched-ness making it better.

Why did looking at them, seeing their faces — flushed, wide-eyed, breath caught — feel like it was feeding sothing in her she hadn’t known was hungry.

He was looking down at her.

That expression.

Not triumphant. Not the crowing quality of a man who has won. Just — the specific, patient, satisfied expression of soone who had known exactly what was going to happen and had made the necessary arrangents.

"’Now,’" he said, his voice low and warm and aid only at her, "’shall I make you a woman?’"

There.

Lying on the wet sand, the aftershock still moving through her thighs in the specific, involuntary tremor of a body that has just spent everything it had — and now he was above her with that expression, and the words had just landed.

’I would make you a woman today.’

"No—"

The word ca out before the thought fully ford. Her hands ca up — both of them, pressing against his chest. The specific, pushing gesture of soone who has decided sothing and is registering it with their palms.

"Wait," she said. "I’m not prepared."

He looked at her.

Not surprised. Not annoyed. The specific, unhurried look of soone who has heard this sentence before and is not in any particular hurry to get past it.

"Prepared," he said.

"I an—" She was still shaking from the orgasm. Her whole lower body felt like it had been wrung out and left in the moonlight. "I’m not — it’s not — I haven’t—"

She stopped.

He waited.

"I haven’t," she said, more simply. The three-word sentence that contained everything.

He looked at her for another second.

Then: "Don’t tell ."

His voice had changed. Not harder. Just — pointed in a specific direction. The direction of soone who has identified a thing and is now examining it from the outside.

"Is it that you’re saving it," he said. "For a husband."

Preet’s face did sothing complicated.

She was looking up at him, her hands still against his chest, the moonlight on both of them. The stars behind his shoulder. His purple eyes in the dark.

She didn’t say anything.

Which was, itself, an answer.

He made a sound. Not derisive. Sothing more like — recognition. The specific, warm register of soone who has just identified a category of situation they know the shape of.

"Why," he said, "is it always the conservative nations?"

"It’s not—"

"India," he said. "Korea. Japan. So parts of China." He tilted his head slightly. The observational tilt of a man who has collected data and is organizing it. "A woman keeps sothing precious to herself for years. Entire years. And then gives it to a man she’s going to marry regardless. As if the act of marriage retroactively changes what the thing ans."

"That’s not—" Her voice was still unsteady. The tremor in it, the specific tremor of soone managing a body that is still coming down from sothing while their mouth is trying to have a philosophical discussion. "That’s not the only reason. It’s about — it ans sothing. It should an sothing. With soone who—"

"Soone who what?"

She looked at him.

"Loves you?" he said.

The word.

In his mouth. Aid at her. In the moonlight on the sand.

She felt it in her sternum.

"Aren’t you interested," he said, and his hand — she’d stopped tracking where his hands were, which was a mistake — his hand was now at her inner thigh, not moving, just resting with the warm, specific weight of a hand that is aware of exactly where it is, "in knowing what it feels like? To be—" he said the next word slowly, "loved."

She was trembling.

Not cold. The specific, total body trembling of soone whose nervous system had been running at double capacity since the shelter.

"That’s not fair," she said.

"No," he agreed.

His hand on her thigh moved.

Inward.

She grabbed his wrist.

"Wait—"

He stopped.

She was holding his wrist with both hands now, both her hands wrapped around the warm, dry width of it. Her thighs pressed together, closing, the specific, reflexive closure of a body protecting sothing.

He didn’t pull.

Didn’t push.

Just — looked at her.

The patience of him was the most terrifying thing about him. Not his strength, not the way he had lifted Nara, not the bullet arm or the coconuts or the purple eyes. The patience. The specific, absolute patience of soone who is not on a schedule and knows it.

"Your thighs," he said.

"What."

"Open them."