Chapter 197: Thrills and Taboo (r-18)

Without warning, he shoved two thick fingers deep inside her

clenching cunt,

curling them viciously against her G-spot while his thumb ground rough circles over her slick, aching clit.

She screamed into his mouth—a raw, guttural wail of forbidden ecstasy—as her walls spasmed around the sudden invasion, squirting a hot gush of arousal that soaked his hand and splattered down his wrist.

The first

release hit

her like a storm—body arching, cunt flooding, every taboo thread of her life unraveling in that single, shattering moment.

They didn’t care.

Not when she was humping him like a bitch in heat, cunt throbbing against his finger, begging to be filled. Not when he was kissing her like he wanted to ruin her soul. Not when the risk of getting caught only made it hotter—made her clit pulse harder, made her juices drip down his fingers.

The forbidden thrill of it—the whispered possibility that her twin brother Danton might turn the corner and glimpse his beloved sister lost in such intimate, secret ecstasy with the boy their family had once sheltered—sent a shiver of delicious heat racing through her.

It wasn’t

shame

that flooded her veins, but a soft,

aching rush of arousal

at how deeply taboo their connection felt, how

perfectly wrong

and right it was to surrender like this in the heart of her childhood home.

She moved against him slowly now, sensuously, riding the deep, steady thrust of his fingers with languid rolls of her hips, her slick warmth enveloping him in creamy, silken pulses. Every gentle plunge drew the sweetest sounds from her—soft, wet sighs that echoed quietly down the corridor like a shared confession.

Phei brushed his lips against hers, voice low and velvet-rough with reverence rather than

cruelty.

"My beautiful

princess,"

he whispered, the words a caress rather than a taunt, "so brave, so trusting... giving yourself to me right here, where everything

we’ve hidden could be seen."

His thumb traced slow, worshipful circles over her swollen clit

as he added, softer still.

"The thought of someone who loves you discovering how perfectly you open for me... how you

bloom

under my touch... it makes you even wetter, doesn’t it?

Our sweet, forbidden love, My love."

The gentle, possessive praise wrapped around her heart and body like silk. It wasn’t degradation that undid her—it was the tender acknowledgment of their secret, the intimate recognition of how profoundly she craved him despite every rule they were breaking.

Her breath caught on a trembling moan as the pleasure crested, soft and overwhelming. Her walls fluttered around his fingers in long, luxurious waves, a warm rush of arousal spilling gently over his hand and down her thighs in shimmering threads.

She didn’t scream this time; instead, she buried her face in the curve of his neck, muffling her quiet, shuddering cries against his skin as the exquisite, sinful climax rolled through her—slow, endless, and utterly cherished.

In that moment, pinned softly between his body and the wall, she felt not ruined, but

adored—perfectly,

dangerously adored—for every taboo inch of her desire.

Phei eased her down slowly, her

trembling

legs finding the floor again, though her back remained pressed to the wall for support.

The shift was deliberate—raw

dominance

giving way to

exquisite tenderness

, as if he were rewriting the rules of her body with patience alone.

He didn’t let her go—not yet. His hands slid from her hips to her waist, then higher, but only to cradle her ribs, thumbs brushing the soft fabric over her sides in slow, reverent strokes. He kept his touch deliberate, worshipful, everywhere except the places still throbbing with need.

Every caress was a promise:

I have you, I see you, I will not rush what is already mine.

He leaned in, mouth finding the delicate curve of her neck just below her ear. His lips were warm, gentle at first—a soft press, then the slow drag of his tongue tasting the salt of her skin. Delilah’s breath hitched into a soft, shuddering

"ahh..."

that trembled in the quiet corridor.

He smiled against her throat and moved lower, kissing along the line of her collarbone, open-mouthed and lingering, as though memorizing every inch of her with nothing but devotion.

The hallway, once a stage for reckless hunger, now became a

cathedral—silent, sacred,

lit only by the dim sconce light that gilded their skin.

His hands roamed her arms, tracing the length of them from shoulder to wrist, then back up again, fingers threading through hers only to release them and glide over the sensitive insides of her elbows.

Every touch was light, teasing, adoring—never demanding, only cherishing.

He kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, then the soft slope where neck met shoulder, teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver

.

A tiny, helpless whimper escaped her

—"mmh..."—

sweet and fragile, echoing faintly down the empty corridor.

Delilah’s head fell back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. A low, needy moan escaped her—sweet, helpless, aching

—"nngh... Phei..."

She was unraveling again, but this time

slowly, luxuriously,

under the weight of pure reverence.

"Phei..."

she whispered, voice breaking on his name. "Please... we’re still in the hallway. Someone could come... please, take me inside.

I need you inside me... ahh, please..."

He lifted his head just enough to meet her gaze, eyes dark and gleaming with quiet delight. A soft, breathless laugh escaped him—not mocking, but thrilled, intoxicated by the danger they were dancing with.

That laugh curled through her like smoke—knowing,

indulgent,

utterly in control.

"Shh, my love,"

he murmured against her lips, brushing a feather-light kiss there.

"Listen to how quiet the house is... how every little sound you make

echoes."

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the tender spot just beneath it, each press of his lips drawing another trembling sigh from her—soft, breathy

"haah..."

sounds that rose and fell with every touch.

"The risk makes you tremble so beautifully," he whispered, voice warm with wonder. "Every moan you give me feels stolen...

precious."

He was savoring the edge they balanced on—the

exquisite

terror of exposure turning every touch into something sacred and profane at once.

His mouth traveled lower again, tracing the neckline of her dress with slow, deliberate kisses along the warm skin of her chest—but never dipping beneath fabric, never claiming more than she’d silently allowed.

His hands skimmed her back, pulling her gently closer so he could taste the flutter of her pulse at her throat once more.

Delilah’s fingers tangled in his hair, not pulling, just holding—anchoring herself as another soft cry slipped free—

"ohh... god..."

—higher, thinner, edged with desperation.

"Please," she begged again, the word fragile and desperate. "Phei, they could walk up the stairs any second... my father, Danton... please, I can’t—

I need you inside me, now, before someone sees—ahh, Phei, please..."

He laughed again, low and velvet-rough, the sound vibrating against her skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

"I know, sweetheart," he breathed, lips curving into a smile she could feel. "I feel it too—the thrill of almost being caught, the way it makes your heart race against my mouth."

He nuzzled just below her ear, voice dropping to a tender hush. "But I want to savor you like this a little longer... trembling for me, begging so

sweetly,

knowing anyone could turn the corner and see how perfectly you burn for me."

The words wrapped around her like silk restraints—gentle, unbreakable, heightening every sensation until the air itself felt charged.

Another helpless moan spilled from her—

"mmnh... please then, as you like it..."

—higher this time, edged with frantic need, her body arching toward him instinctively, seeking more, seeking everything.

Phei’s hands settled warmly at her waist again, steadying her, grounding her. He drew back just enough to look at her—flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with want—and the adoration in his gaze was unmistakable.

In that look was everything: possession, protection, worship—a silent vow that she would never again doubt how thoroughly she belonged to him.

"My brave, beautiful girl," he promised softly, brushing one last reverent kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Let me worship every trembling inch of you right here, where the whole world might hear how much you’re mine."

The distant echo of footsteps—measured, deliberate, Harold’s unmistakable stride ascending the grand staircase—cut through the haze of their shared breath like a warning bell.

The spell fractured in an instant, the languid worship snapping into sharp, electric awareness as danger crept closer.