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

Chapter 433: Elara

She looks at me like I am ridiculous.

She would not understand.

Her arms are not bulky the way men’s are. They are full of muscle all the same—dense, clean, the kind that flexes under my palm when she shifts her weight above me. I have always wanted to hold them like this. In the dreams I could never quite reach. Now they are here.

Warm. Real. Mine to touch.

I like that she’s more manly than men. And when she’s soft too, like a woman—breast against my chest, mouth gentle before it turns mean—it’s something uniquely her. Not one or the other. Her.

I let my hands trail.

Over her chest. The tight pull of her nipples under what little is left between us. Down the ladder of her ribs. Around to the thick muscles of her back, the ones that bunch when she moves. I map her like I might lose the shape if I stop.

I look up.

She’s watching me. Amused. That small crooked almost-smile she gets when she catches me wanting too openly.

"Don’t," I warn.

"I have not said a thing," she says.

She hasn’t. She doesn’t need to. The look is enough.

She moves off me to take off her pants.

I lean on my elbows and watch her.

Buttons. Zipper. The shove of the fabric of her pants, and underwear as she kicks them away and comes to the bed immediately.

When she gets back on the bed I feel like I’m in heat. It’s too much. Skin. Heat. The scent of her, of mine mixes in this cramped little room.

My pulse is stupid between my legs. Loud.

I meet her halfway.

Addicted to the taste of my blood on her tongue. I kiss her for it. Take it back. Give it again.

My wolf stirs inside me, normally she’s silent I often forget she exists, but even she must feel this urgency, this need.

She places a thigh between my legs and I can’t help it.

I rock down onto the hard muscle of her leg like I’ve been waiting years to be allowed. Because I have.

Again. I roll my hips and chase it, shameless, hands fisted in whatever of her I can reach.

"Elara—"

"Don’t stop." It comes out rough. Almost a growl. "I have waited. I am not waiting more."

She laughs once, low, against my throat. Then her thigh presses up harder and her hand finds my hip to help me use her.

The other braces by my head. Those arms. Flexed. Close enough to turn my face and set my teeth against the inside of one if I wanted.

I want.

So I bite.

I have the right. This is my mate.

My teeth find the soft inside of her bicep, the place where the muscle is thick and warm and already flexed from holding her weight above me.

She makes a sound low in her throat and does not pull away. Good. I hold the bite a second longer, just to feel her pulse jump against my teeth, then drag my mouth higher along the same arm because I can.

Because she is mine and the dreams never let me do this.

Her chest drags against mine with every breath. Nipple to nipple. The friction is electric, sharp enough that my back arches without permission.

My hands are greedy for the rest of her—ribs, the hard line of her back, the place where her shoulder meets her neck. I map it all while my hips roll up against the thigh she has driven between my legs.

Her teeth graze my throat.

The world narrows.

Feeling vulnerable I want to twist free, at the same time I never want to leave.

The two feelings slam into each other inside my ribs and my whole body shudders hard enough that she feels it.

I grind up harder on her thigh. Wet. Shameless. The drag pulls a broken sound out of me that I do not bother to swallow.

"Greedy," she murmurs against my throat.

"Yours," I say. Not an argument. A fact. "You made me wait through dreams. Through seven years of raising her alone and reaching for you in sleep and never catching. You do not get to call me greedy for taking what is in front of me."

Something in her goes still. Then hot.

I move before she can answer.

I switch us.

It takes one hard roll, legs locking, hands shoving her shoulders down into the mattress.

She looks very surprised at how easily I moved her, she looks at me in surprise but her eyes soon look downwards.

She has been with me for lifetimes. I am glad I can still give her something new.

I push her flatter, palm between her breasts, and catch her thigh, hauling it up and open so I can settle between her legs the way she had settled between mine.

I know she’s more of a giver, and doesn’t like to be touched but she’ll forgive me today.

I lean down until our chests meet again. Friction, immediate, brutal.

The muscles in her stomach jump under my palm when I put my weight into the next roll.

She curses. Quiet. Mean with pleasure.

I lean down and bite her lower lip the way she bit mine.

Not as hard. Hard enough. Flesh yields under my teeth and the small shocked sound she makes goes straight through me.

It is not enough.

I need her deeper. Under the skin.

Something that will still be there tomorrow when the sun comes up, long after this moment is over. She must have read my mind because her hands clamp my waist.

Claws out.

The points sink in as she hauls me down and grinds me against her in one ruthless roll of her hips.

Pain blooms bright and clean along my sides—six, eight little fires where she has broken the surface. I look down and see the streaks

Her marks on me, parallel and unapologetic, already smearing where sweat finds them.

"Yes," I gasp.

This is exactly what I need, something skin deep.

Another grind, harder. The catch and drag turns vicious. Open against open. Every pull of her claws tugs me tighter into it. Chest to chest. Nipple dragging nipple.

I brace my hands on either side of her head and work my hips like I am trying to crawl inside her.

Goddess I wish I could.

Every roll drags my heat over hers—slick, hot, the swollen press of her against me so exact it steals the air out of my lungs.

I push harder. Deeper.

As if force alone could fuse us. As if I could split her open and pour myself in and never have to come back out.

I cannot get close enough.

She kisses me. Takes my mouth the way she takes everything—sure, claiming—and does another of those slow, vicious drags.

The friction lights every nerve I own and my eyes roll back hard enough the room goes white at the edges.

"Daphne." I cry out loudly.

"I know. I know." Her mouth finds mine again, softer this time, swallowing the sound.

She rolls up to meet the next grind and the wet slide of us makes a obscene, perfect sound between our bodies.

I drop my forehead to hers. Keep moving. Keep trying to crawl in. My thighs shake. My claws have torn the sheets on either side of her head; I can smell the cotton tearing. I do not care.

"Please—" I do not even know what I am asking for. More. Harder. Her. All of it.

She answers with her hips. Another long pull, deliberate, cruel in how good it is, and the sound I make into her mouth is not human anymore.

It hits from the base of my spine and rips upward—heat, pressure, that bright white edge—and I grind down hard enough to hurt us both, chasing it, forcing every last inch of contact.

I come with my mouth open on her name and nothing comes out but a rough broken cry, the kind I have held for seven years.

She follows.

I feel it. The way her body locks under me, thighs clamping, claws sinking into my waist deep enough I can feel them in my bones.

She makes a low animal sound that sounds like purring into my throat and keeps moving through it, dragging us together in short filthy pulses until I am sobbing against her mouth and the aftershocks keep rolling, one into the next, no mercy.

My hips still twitch. Little helpless rolls I cannot stop. She holds me through them, one hand in my hair, the other splayed at the small of my back, sticky with me.

Way better than the dreams.

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