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

Chapter 410:

Lorelei

Her hands move to my chest. She squeezes gently, then pinches the nubs again. She takes one into her mouth and sucks until it pops out.

It is pointy.

She does the same to the other one.

They have never been pointy before.

"How lovely." She examines her work with satisfaction. "I was starting to think mermaids had no nipples."

She pauses.

"Turns out they are just inverted. They simply needed the right kind of motivation."

I cross my arms over my chest. The cold air makes them sensitive in a way I do not enjoy.

She runs her thumbs across my ribs, counting each one beneath her fingers.

"My beloved." She frowns. "We need to get you plumper."

I raise an eyebrow.

"I heard it was rude in human culture to speak of a lady’s body so freely."

She looks up at me.

"I think I can be forgiven."

"And why is that?"

She kisses the corner of my mouth.

"You love me."

"I do not."

"Do not lie." Her hand trails down my spine, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing each vertebra. "Your eyes are telling the truth. And so is your body."

I shiver.

"My body does not speak."

"Of course it does." She presses her palm flat against my lower back. "It speaks very clearly."

She kisses me. With my hands around her neck and hers roaming across my body, we keep kissing.

The world has narrowed to her mouth on mine, her hands on my skin, the warmth spreading through my chest.

I move closer. My chest rubs against hers.

The cold, wet fabric of her shirt makes me shiver.

I look down.

"Yours are pointy too," I say, noticing the nubs pointing through her shirt.

She glances down at herself.

"So they are."

She looks at me.

"Want to see?"

I nod immediately.

She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. The fabric lands on the fabric with a soft, wet sound.

I look at her bare chest.

Her skin is pale in the moonlight, smooth unlike my scarred one.Her chest rises and falls with each breath. The nubs are dark against her skin, pointed, inviting.

"Can I touch them?"

"Of course," she says.

I reach out.

I replicate what she was doing to me—palms first, then fingers, then thumbs brushing over the tips.

She flinches.

I pause.

"No," she says quickly. "It is just that your hands were cold."

I nod.

I continue.

My hands play across her chest—cupping, squeezing, learning the shape of her. She is softer than I expected.

"They are small," I say.

She laughs.

"Compared to yours?"

I look down at myself.

"I suppose."

She covers my hands with hers.

"Want them to be bigger?" she asks.

I immediately shake my head.

"No," I say. "They are perfect."

And they are.They suit her—small and firm and hers. I like them.

She kisses me again.

This time, I gasp when our chests rub against each other.

The sensation is different from before. New. Overwhelming. Her skin is warm against mine, soft and smooth, and every point of contact sends a shiver through my body.

Her skin is so warm against mine, a stark contrast to the cold night air that bites at my back. Every point of contact sends a new jolt of that strange, tingling warmth through me, pooling low in my belly.

I want more.

I press closer, trying to eliminate any space between us.

The friction of her chest against mine makes me gasp into her mouth.

She swallows the sound.

Her hands roam down my back, pulling me tighter against her. The boat rocks beneath us, but I barely notice. There is only her. Only this. Only the heat building between us.

Her hands, which had been resting on my back, slide down. Down. Down. Until they are cupping my bottom, squeezing the flesh there through the strange, soft material of my human form.

It is a possessive gesture.

It makes me happy in ways I cannot name.

The tingly feeling that has been building in my chest, my belly, my limbs—I can finally pinpoint it.

Desire.

I want her hands on me. I want her mouth on me. I want to be closer—closer than skin, closer than breath, closer than anything I have ever known.

I feel it now.

The ache. The hunger. The need.

My hips jerk forward of their own accord, a movement I cannot control.

The motion presses the core of me against the hard muscle of her thigh, and the friction is so exquisite, so unexpected, that I whimper.

"That is it," she murmurs against my lips. Her voice is a low, rumbling purr that vibrates through my entire body. "Move with me, my beloved."

I do not know what she means. I am not moving. My body is moving. It has a will of its own.

I cannot stop.

The boat sways with us,a gentle, rhythmic motion that seems to echo the frantic pulse beating between my legs.

I am lost.

The world is gone.There is nothing but her. Her mouth on mine. Her skin beneath my palms. Her hands gripping my hips, guiding me, holding me.

And this feeling.

It is consuming me from the inside out.

I press closer. I do not know what I am searching for. I only know I have not found it yet.

I can feel the wetness between my thighs, a slickness that has nothing to do with the sea.

"Please," I breathe, the word torn from my throat. I don’t know what I am begging for. I only know that I need something more.

"I know," she whispers, her hands leaving my bottom.

One slides around my front, her fingers splaying across my stomach, holding me steady. The other continues its journey downward.

Every nerve in my body is focused on that single, exploring hand.

The touch is hesitant at first, a gentle exploration of folds I have never paid much attention to.

But when her fingertip brushes against a small, hard nub hidden at the top—

I see stars.

A sharp, electric shock shoots through me, so intense it is almost painful. My back arches. A cry tears from my lips.

Everything stops.

The boat. The waves. The world.

"Daphne—" I gasp.

"I know." Her voice is soft. "I know."

She does not move her hand.

She waits.

My body trembles. The echoes of that blinding, electric shock still ripple through me, fading but not gone. I press my face into her shoulder.

"It is okay," she says.

Then she touches it again.

I cry out—a broken, desperate sound I do not recognize as my own.

The sensation crashes over me again, sharper this time, more focused. Her fingertip circles the small, hard nub with deliberate care, learning the shape of me, the rhythm of my pleasure.

My hips jerk forward.

I cannot stop them.

"That is it," she murmurs.

The rocking of my hips starts again, but now it has a purpose. Now I am grinding against her hand, chasing that feeling, trying to make it happen again.

"Please," I gasp again, my face buried in the crook of her neck.

Her answer is a kiss. Hard and deep, her mouth claiming mine as her fingers begin to move in a slow, deliberate circle.

It is the most exquisite torture I have ever known.

My own hands are restless now. They roam over her back, feeling the smooth planes of her muscles,the warmth of her skin beneath my palms.

Then they tangle in her wet hair, the dark strands slipping through my fingers like silk.

I want to touch her everywhere at once.

I want to memorize the shape of her. The taste of her. The sound of her breathing.

I want to crawl inside her skin and never leave.

"More," I demand. My voice is ragged, broken, desperate. "I need... more."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

I answer by taking her hand.

I guide it. I push it lower—an act of instinct, a movement I do not understand. My mind is foggy, clouded with want and warmth and something I cannot name. But my body understands.

It knows what it needs.

One finger presses against me, testing the resistance. I am so wet it slides in easily, a strange, full sensation that makes me gasp. It’s not enough.

I need more. I push my hips down, taking her deeper, and a second finger joins the first.

The stretch is slight, a pleasant pressure that borders on discomfort.

She curls her fingers inside me, finding a spot that makes my vision go white.

My head tilts back. My spine arches. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I almost fall off her lap.

The boat rocks beneath us. My balance shifts.But she holds me in place with her free hand.

Her grip is firm on my hip.

"Do not fall," she says.

I cannot answer.

I cannot speak.

Her fingers retreat, then push back in, deeper this time.

It’s not just the spot she’s hitting inside me, it’s the possessive way she moves, the sure, confident rhythm.

She establishes a pace, a steady, in-and-out motion that makes my hips rock to meet her hand.

My hands fly from her shoulders to the sides of the boat, bracing myself as her movements become more forceful.

The boat shakes. Water splashes over the sides, the water is cold and sharp against my heated skin—but it cannot stop the fire burning inside me.

Each movement sends a jolt through me.

The sound of my own breathing fills my ears—harsh and ragged, broken into fragments with every thrust of her fingers.

I cannot believe I am the one making those sounds.

I am making sounds now. Small, desperate whimpers that I cannot hold back. They escape between my lips, high and needy and shameless.

"Look at me," she commands.

I force my head forward. My chin drops. My eyes find hers.

She watches every flicker of pleasure on my face with that dark, possessive gaze, that’s stripping me to my soul.

Her thumb finds that nub again.

She circles it in time with the thrust of her fingers—slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm building inside me.

The dual stimulation is too much.

Too much.

A violent shudder racks me from head to toe—my spine arching, my thighs clenching, my hands gripping the edges of the boat so hard the wood creaks beneath my palms.

I collapse against her.

My face buries in her neck. My body goes limp, slick with sweat and sea spray, trembling with the aftershocks of something I have never felt before.

The only sounds are the lapping of water against the hull and our ragged breaths.

Her fingers are still inside me, when she begins to withdraw them, I grab her wrist.

"Again," I whisper.

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