My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 806 - 806: The Altar... (r-18)
Phei had descended upon her slowly, with reverence, with the full and absolute understanding that what lay before him was not to be consumed but worshipped.
His knees found the mattress, while his hands found her waist, but his mouth — unhurried, deliberate, incandescent with purpose — found the hollow of her throat and began its pilgrimage south.
He kissed her collarbone but the left one first, then the right, his lips tracing the elegant ridge of bone beneath skin so warm it felt febrile.
His right hand rose to her face, thumb brushing her lower lip, and she turned into the touch with closed eyes and parted mouth — kissing his thumb, breathing against it, a soft “Mmm” vibrating from her chest into his palm.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“If you stop… I will kill you.”
He smiled against her chest feeling the tremor of her laughter beneath his lips before it dissolve into a shiver as his mouth made its descent into the valley between her breasts.
The lace was still there even after all he did Phei had not removed it yet — that ridiculous, overwhelmed, valiantly failing barrier — and he could feel the heat of her skin through it, could feel her heartbeat hammering against the insufficient cups like something caged and furious.
His hands traced the outer curves of her breasts through the lace. Slowly; his fingertips following the generous lateral swell from armpit to the heavy underside where gravity had pulled them slightly apart against the mattress; impossibly full beneath his palms — warm, yielding, the kind of weight that made his fingers want to sink and stay.
He cupped her left breast and lifted it gently, feeling the heft of it settle into his hand, the soft, heavy flesh overflowing his palm as he squeezed with deliberate, possessive pressure.
The warmth of her skin bled through the lace, and beneath it he could already feel the stiff, aching peak of her nipple pressing against his palm.
Melissa’s spine arched off the bed.
“Ahh — God —”
“These,” he said, his thumb circling the stiff peak of her nipple through the lace, watching the fabric drag across the sensitive bud, watching her stomach clench and her thighs press together in response.
“These are a problem, Melissa.”
“A — ahh — a problem?”
“They’ve been distracting me since I was sixteen years old, I told you, thinking about exactly this — about how they would feel in my hands, how they would taste in my mouth, how they would look spilling out of my grip while I fucked you.”
Her laugh broke into a moan as his thumb pressed harder, rolling her nipple through the lace with the measured patience of a man dismantling something precious.
“Nnh — you’re making me wait, telling me things you told me before — you’re terrible —”
“I’m honest in making you wait. There’s a distinction.”
His mouth closed over her right breast through the fabric, his lips sealing around the stiff point of her nipple, tongue pressing flat against it through the lace, and the sound that tore from Melissa’s throat was not controlled, not measured, not anything resembling the composure she wore like armor in every other room she occupied.
“Ahhh — ahh — Phei — please —”
He released her, he qat back and just looked at her — flushed, heaving, eyes glazed, nipples straining dark and swollen against wet lace — before he reached behind her.
The clasp opened with a single motion of his fingers.
The bra gave up its post with the quiet relief like it had known, from the moment of deployment, that the position was indefensible.
The straps slid down her shoulders.
The cups peeled away from breasts too heavy and too warm to have ever been properly contained, and what was revealed beneath made his breath catch in a way that no amount of previous experience could have inoculated him against.
Melissa’s bare breasts were —
‘Good gods.’
Full, round and heavy, spreading slightly under their own weight against her ribcage, the skin flushed pink from the friction of lace and the heat of arousal.
Her areolae were wide — dark rose, almost mauve, textured with the delicate pebbled grain of gooseflesh, each one a coin-sized circle of impossibly sensitive flesh that tightened and darkened even as he watched.
At their centers her nipples jutted upward — thick, swollen, the color of bruised berries — stiff enough to cast their own small shadows in the moonlight, faintly glistening where his mouth had dampened them through the fabric.
“Beautiful,” he said. Not performing. Not narrating. Just the word falling from his mouth because his vocabulary had temporarily collapsed under the weight of what his eyes were processing.
“Absolutely fucking beautiful.”
“Phei…” His name left her on a trembling exhale. Her back was arching. Her hands were fisting the sheets at her sides.
Her hips had begun a slow, restless rotation against the mattress — grinding against nothing, seeking friction her body demanded and the empty air refused to provide.
He lowered his mouth to her left breast.
No lace between them now. Just his lips closing over the swollen peak of her nipple, his tongue circling the stiff bud, pressing it, flattening it against the roof of his mouth before releasing it to flick the tip with devastating precision.
Goddess Fall Touch, still hummed at its lowest barely there, barely above dormant — and even at that whisper of its full capacity the effect was seismic. Every lick sent a pulse of pleasure through her that transcended the mechanical and entered the divine.
“AHHH — oh — oh God — mmm —”
Her hand flew to the back of his head. Fingers tangling in his hair, pressing him closer, holding him against her breast with the desperate grip of a woman who had discovered that letting go of this mouth was not something her body was prepared to negotiate on.
His right hand — while his lips and tongue dismantled her through her left nipple — slid down her body.
Across the trembling plane of her stomach…
Over the ridge of her hip…
…down to the waistband of her panties and then past it — not beneath the fabric, not yet, but over it — his fingers pressing the lace flat against the junction of her thighs and finding what waited there.
Heat. Damp heat. The lace was soaked even more than before — not merely damp but saturated, the white fabric darkened to translucence and clinging to the swollen contours of her sex beneath it with the desperate fidelity of a thing that had lost all capacity to conceal.
Through the wet lace he could see everything — the plump outer lips pressed together in a soft, glistening seam, the darker inner folds swollen and parted just slightly at the centre, the small, hard prominence of her clit straining against the fabric at the apex like a pearl trapped beneath silk.
The heat radiating from her was extraordinary.
He could feel it against his fingertips from an inch away — a furnace contained in lace, slick-wet and aching while it producing the faintest, sweetest scent of musk and arousal that drifted up to him like an offering.
His middle finger found her clit through the wet lace; he circled once more.
“AHHH!”
Melissa’s hips bucked off the mattress. Her thighs clamped around his wrist.
Her entire body went rigid for a single, suspended second before collapsing back into the sheets, trembling, chest heaving, a stream of broken sounds pouring from her mouth — “Ah — ah — nnh — oh God — oh God — please — please don’t — don’t stop —”
He didn’t stop.
Instead, he slowed down.
His finger moved in slow, deliberate, devastating circles over the soaked lace, pressing just firmly enough to part her outer lips and rub directly against the swollen, throbbing bud beneath.
Phei could feel every detail through the thin, wet fabric — the way her clit pulsed under his touch, the way her inner lips parted and fluttered, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through and coated his fingertip every time he circled her.
He stroked her with the same unhurried mastery he used on her breasts — never rushing, never giving her enough pressure to come, only enough to keep her trembling, dripping, and begging.
“Mel,” he murmured against her breast, voice dark and low. “Your cunt is dripping through the lace. I can feel how swollen you are. How wet and how badly this pretty pussy wants to be touched and fucked.”
He pressed two fingers more firmly against her soaked centre, rubbing slow, firm strokes up and down the length of her slit through the lace, feeling the way her folds parted for him, feeling the heat and slickness of her cunt as the fabric grew even wetter beneath his touch.
Every slow pass made a soft, wet sound — the quiet, obscene sound of soaked lace and soaked flesh yielding to his fingers. Melissa’s hips rolled desperately against his hand, her thighs shaking, her moans breaking into helpless, gasping whimpers every time his fingers passed over her clit.
“Phei — Phei — oh God — I can’t — I’m going to —”
“Not yet,” he said calmly, lifting his mouth from her breast just long enough to look at her face — flushed, desperate, beautiful. “You don’t come until I say so. You understand?”
She nodded frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure gathering at the corners of her eyes.
“Good girl.”
He lowered his mouth back to her breast, sucking her nipple deep into his mouth with long, rhythmic pulls while his fingers continued their slow, masterful torment between her thighs — stroking, circling, pressing, teasing her soaked, lace-covered cunt until she was shaking so violently the entire bed trembled beneath her.
He could feel her pussy clenching rhythmically against the lace every time he circled her clit, could feel fresh, hot wetness leaking through the fabric to coat his fingers, could feel the way her thighs trembled and tried to close around his wrist only to fall open again in helpless surrender.
And still, he did not rush.
