10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 29- A Playboy’s Life
He pinched.
Her nipple—properly, between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the hardened peak and pinching—and her back snapped upward and she made a sound that she would spend a long time pretending she’d never made.
"’AANH~!’"
His fingers hooked inside her at the same moment. Curled. Pressed directly into the spot he’d catalogued last night and revisited every hour since until it was as familiar to him as his own name.
"’—Hh—don’t—I’ll—’"
"I know," he said.
He knew.
He absolutely knew. She could feel it in how he moved—unhurried, exact, unhurried ’because’ he was exact, because he knew precisely how much she needed and was giving her slightly less on purpose.
His thumb traced tighter circles. His fingers moved deeper on the pull-back.
His mouth stayed at her neck, sucking slow and warm, adding layer after layer of sensation that she had nowhere to put.
"’Cruxius—’" His name came out broken. "’We’re—the hospital—weren’t we—’"
"Mm." His lips curved against her neck. "We’ll be there in twelve minutes."
"’Then—stop—’"
He didn’t stop.
His fingers drove upward—once, sharp—and her thighs snapped shut around his hand and the sound that came out of her mouth was "’HNGH~!!’" and her fingers dug into his forearm hard enough to mark.
"’Don’t—close them,’" he said.
He pressed his knee between hers. Her legs fell open again.
"’I hate—’" she gasped. "’I hate you—’"
His thumb pressed flat and ’held.’
Her hips rolled. Against her will, against every instruction she’d given them, her hips ’rolled’ toward his hand—seeking the friction, closing the distance, the entire lower half of her body voting against everything her brain had planned.
He gave her more.
Fingers moving faster now, the wet sounds obscenely clear in the quiet of the car. Thalia turned her face into his shoulder and pressed her forehead there and breathed through her teeth. His palm kneaded her breast in slow, full strokes, thumb dragging across her nipple on every pass—the bra doing nothing now, the fabric just adding friction to the motion that made it worse.
"’Ngh—mm—nhh~—’"
"There," he murmured against her temple.
"’Stop saying—’ anh ’—stop saying things—’"
"Look ahead."
"’What—’"
He pressed his thumb down and ’circled.’ Once. Twice. The third circle he applied pressure and his fingers curled at the same moment and the heat that had been building in her lower belly for the last seven minutes hit flash point all at once.
"’—MMNH~!! AANGH~!!’"
Her spine locked. Her toes curled inside her heels. Her whole body went rigid against him and her walls clenched around his fingers in deep, rhythmic pulses while the orgasm rolled through her in waves she couldn’t break or steer or do anything with except take.
His hand kept moving through all of it—slower, not stopping, drawing every last shudder out of her until her legs were trembling and her grip on his forearm had gone from tight to limp.
Her head tipped back against his shoulder.
Her mouth was open.
Her eyes—she could feel them—had gone soft and unfocused at the ceiling, the way they did when her brain came back in pieces after something that took it apart.
She breathed.
In.
Out.
"’...Weren’t we,’" she said, voice barely there, eyes still at the ceiling. "’Going to the hospital.’"
"Yes," Cruxius said.
He withdrew his hand. She felt it—the absence, the rush of cool air—and her body gave one last involuntary clench at nothing.
He adjusted her skirt. Smoothed it back over her thighs. Pulled her bra strap back into position through the fabric of the dress as if tidying a shelf.
All of it done with the same calm he did everything.
Thalia sat in his lap and stared at the car ceiling and breathed.
In the front seat, Darithi’s eyes were on the road.
They were, in fact, the most disciplined eyes in the known world right now.
"...Four minutes," Darithi said.
Whether she meant to the hospital or to Thalia’s next attempt at dignity was unclear.
Thalia closed her eyes.
Her thighs were wet. Her neck throbbed where he’d sucked it. Her nipple ached with the particular deep-tissue ache that came from being pinched by someone who knew exactly how hard to pinch.
She was going to walk into a hospital like this.
She was going to stand under fluorescent lights and clinical air and make eye contact with medical professionals and she was going to do it leaking into her underwear with his marks on her neck and her lipstick smeared into her jaw.
"’I hate you, guys.’" she said.
"Your body might not agree with you," he said.
His arm was still around her waist.
She didn’t move off his lap.
She was still catching her breath when he started talking.
That was the thing. No pause, no ceremony, no acknowledgment of what had just happened. He just—’talked,’ the way he did everything else, like the world rearranged around him without being asked.
"Like... that’s how it is, Thalia."
She was lying against his chest.
Not by choice—her legs had stopped working somewhere around the second time his fingers curled and her spine had done what spines weren’t supposed to do in moving vehicles.
Her back rested against him now, thighs fallen open across his lap, dress tucked back down but his hand still ’there’—two fingers still buried inside her, unmoving, just resting like he’d forgotten they were there. Or like he hadn’t forgotten at all and simply didn’t feel the need to remove them.
His other hand moved slow across her stomach. Not asking for anything. Just—moving. Thumb tracing the curve of her ribs through the fabric in long, idle strokes.
Like petting a cat.
She hated that she’d gone boneless enough to allow it.
His voice was even as he continued. The same tone he used for everything. "I slept with women who were—in my head—on her level. Women I thought could fix something. Or prove something." A beat. "That went on for about two years."
Thalia’s eyes, which had been at the car ceiling, moved to the window.
Her brows drew together.
His finger shifted—barely, just a slow drag inward before settling again—and the sensation it sent up her spine made her jaw tighten and her thighs try to close.
His knee pressed between hers from beneath and they fell back open.
The motion was automatic. ’His.’ Like her body had filed it under ’his’ and stopped asking her permission.
She was going to deal with that later.
"You psycho." She kept her voice flat, which took effort. "’You went around rap—’"
"You were the only one who was a mistake."
Not him. Darithi, from the front seat. Her voice came over her shoulder—not loud, not heated. Just ’cold.’ The particular cold of someone correcting a factual error.
"The others were more than willing," Darithi continued. "Most of them came to him. Some tried to drug him." She paused. "None of them needed to be convinced."
Thalia’s mouth closed.
She wanted to argue. She had the argument ready—she could feel it sitting in her chest, sharp and justified and waiting. But Darithi’s voice had that specific quality of someone who’d watched the whole thing from three feet away and had no reason to lie about it.
And honestly—
She thought about him. The voice. The weight of his arm. The way a room rearranged around him without him asking. The way even ’she’, in the last eighteen hours of hating him, had not once been able to look somewhere else for more than sixty seconds.
She thought about the kind of women who moved in the circles he moved in.
"...Tch."
