QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 139: One track mind [M]

Chapter 139 - Estela POV

Definitely a woman.

She kisses me, her hands restless—moving up and down, from my hip, to my chest, to everywhere in between. It’s as if she can’t get enough.

And neither can I.

My nerves are on fire.

She tugs open my legs with her knees, and in that moment, I forget who I am. Forget the past, the future, everything but the press of her mouth and the way she consumes all thought.

"For someone who said she doesn’t indulge in these desires," she murmurs against my neck, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there, "you seem pretty full of these desires."

Honestly, I don’t care.

It’s been too long. Too much. I don’t know how long we’ve been kissing, and her hands keep avoiding the one place I need her the most—on purpose, I know.

She’s dragging it out.

And I hate it.

And I love it.

Every teasing stroke. Every low hum she makes when I gasp or writhe beneath her. It’s a game she’s clearly very good at.

She nips at my collarbone. Her hand slides down my side, ghosting over the edge of my thigh. But still—still—she won’t give me what I need.

I’ve either been with some very unskilled men because, honestly, I never understood the big deal about sex.

I was wrong. Very wrong.

I know I’m crying.

Not sobbing—just quiet tears sliding down the sides of my face, soaking into the sheets. The kind of crying your body does when it’s overloaded and you can’t tell if you’re overwhelmed or just completely unmade.

This must be why it’s such a taboo to have same-sex relationships. This... this is not something humans are supposed to feel. Not like this. Not this deep, this consuming, this good.

"Shhhh, don’t cry. I’ve stopped teasing, okay?" Daphne murmurs against my ear, her voice suddenly so gentle it makes the tears come faster.

"Mmhhmm," I manage, nodding slightly, trying to get control of myself.

Her hands never leave me. One rests at my hip. The other brushes hair from my face with the care of someone cradling glass.

"You okay?" she asks, eyes searching mine.

I nod again. "Yeah. Just—this is a lot."

"Okay, now you move and take what you need," she says, slapping my ass lightly and reaching for a pillow to lean against.

She shifts comfortably, clearly settled in to enjoy the view. Her expression is eager, playful, and somehow still reverent.

I feel shy.

A bit late to feel shy now, I know. But the way she’s looking at me, like I’m the main event in a theater she personally funded, makes heat crawl up my neck.

I bite my lip. I hesitate.

She arches a brow. "Don’t mind me. Have you ever had fun with a pillow as a teen?"

Her hands slide to my waist, thumbs brushing slow circles there.

I shake my head.

"Really?" she says, clearly stunned. "Not even a blunt surface?"

My jaw drops slightly. "Why are you asking me this now?"

She blinks innocently. "Just curious."

I sigh, exasperated. "I was busy, okay? Killing people, doing chores, taking care of the younger girls at the orphanage."

"Okay, that’s fine. I’m glad to be that object anyway—very glad," she says with a grin that borders on wicked.

Then her hands move, guiding my hips gently.

"Now you see..." she murmurs, her voice suddenly softer, more coaxing. She shifts me with slow, sure movements, and my hips tremble at the first contact.

I gasp, clinging to her shoulders for balance.

"Now, you just move like this," she says, tilting her own hips slightly to demonstrate, "until you find what feels good for you."

And then she leans back down, arms tucked behind her head, watching me with a mix of amusement and genuine affection.

I try to move again, hesitant, but her expression is nothing but encouraging—no judgment, just quiet awe.

I glare at her, frustration bubbling just under my skin, but I need release or I’ll combust.

So I move my hips, experimentally.

Nothing.

I try again. Still not enough. I groan softly, shifting angles, but it all feels awkward. Uncoordinated.

Frustrated, I start to guide my hand down, thinking maybe I need a little extra help.

"Don’t," Daphne says firmly.

I freeze, looking at her, whining involuntarily. My brows draw together in protest.

"Trust me," she says, her tone softer now. Encouraging. "Go on."

I take a breath. Try again.

"This is not wo—aahh..." I trail off, because—what is that?

A jolt tears through me, and my thighs tighten instinctively.

"There it is," Daphne says, smug and satisfied, like she knew all along.

I grind my hips down again. And again. And again.

Each movement sends another ripple through me, chasing the sensation like a starved thing. Searching for that high, that heat, that edge.

"Wait—calm down," Daphne says, her voice tight with something that sounds like concern.

But I don’t hear her. Not really.

Instead, I shift, sitting cross-legged over her thigh, angling myself just right. A small, almost desperate gasp escapes me as I grind down, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

"Estela, wait—" she tries again, her hands coming to my hips as if to slow me.

But no.

No.

I’m not hearing anything.

This is revenge—revenge for the hours she spent teasing me. For the way she played with my nerves like a violin. For the slow, torturous way she kissed every inch of me but never where I needed it most.

And it feels so good.

Too good.

I can’t stop.

My hips move with a will of their own, grinding down with wild rhythm, chasing the friction, the burn, the unraveling.

I have a one-track mind right now.

And that track is her.

Her thigh, the grip of her hands, the heat in her gaze. All of it.

Every ounce of me focused on the pleasure I’ve found. And I’m not letting go until I fall apart in her arms.

She tries again. "Estela—you’re going to—"

Too late.

A strangled moan escapes me, raw and low. My head tips back, spine bowing as the wave crashes over me.

White-hot.