I woke like somebody had flicked a switch behind my eyes. Not the normal groggy crawl out of sleep. One second I was face-down in the squeaky bed, dreaming of pancakes, next second my body was already moving. Fangpiercer hummed on the table.
I turned.
She was there. Leaning against my counter like she owned the lease. Combat jacket still on, hair pulled high, storm-gray eyes catching what little light the room had. For a second my brain lagged—just a shape in the dark—then it hit.
Selene Veyra. Poster idol turned Central's problem solver. The cougar my teenage self had lost hours to in the back of my head.
Of course. Middle of the night. No door creak, no key—just standing there like it's normal. If she wanted me dead, I'd already be a stain on the sheets. Instead my dumb brain went, hey, boobs.
"Jesus," I croaked, throat still dry with sleep. "If you're here for pancakes, you're too early. If you're here for rent, I'm broke."
Her mouth tilted. Not a smile. Something worse. "Cute," she said. "That nervous humor always work for you?"
"No," I admitted. "But it's all I've got."
She pushed off the counter. Boots didn't make a sound. The kind of movement that said she hadn't retired from killing things, just changed who signed the paycheck. She stopped close enough I could smell steel and something faint like citrus.
"I have questions." She said it like she was ordering coffee.
"Of course you do," I muttered. My throat still felt like sandpaper. "Everybody does. 'How'd the F-rank clear an A-rank?' 'Why aren't you paste on the floor?' 'Do you really live off ramen and protein shakes?'"
Her eyes didn't blink. They just tracked me, steady, storm-gray, like she was logging every twitch in my face. Then her mouth tilted. "You run your mouth too much for someone who should be terrified."
"I am terrified," I said. "This is my terrified face."
That got a real smirk. Sharp. Dangerous. Like a cat who'd found the mouse pretending to play dead.
"Relax," she said, stepping closer. "If Central wanted you chained, you'd still be in Resonance."
"Oh, good," I said. "So this is the relaxed version. Can't wait to see what stressful looks like."
She stepped closer. My back found the wall without asking permission. Fangpiercer hummed louder on the table like it thought I needed backup.
"You're reckless," she said, soft now. "Walking into a gate alone. Fighting like you don't care if you come back."
"Compatible with idiots," I said. "Ask my knife."
Her head tilted, gray eyes running me top to bottom. "Maybe I should."
I swallowed. Hard. Because the air had changed. The kind of change you don't plan for, you just feel. Her weight closer. Her aura pressing. The way her smirk didn't stop at amusement—it dragged heat behind it.
Horny slideshow brain flipped through old posters, fantasies, the dangerous curve of her hip under that jacket. Great timing, brain. Excellent work.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. Predators always notice.
She stepped into me. Her hand caught my jaw, not rough, not gentle—just hers. Her thumb traced my lip, slow. I didn't breathe. My blood did it for me, rushing, hammering.
"Relax," she whispered, and the word burned hotter than any skill log.
Why do MILFs keep throwing themselves at me? Normal women take months. Dates. Texts. Ghosting. These ones? Five minutes and it's clothes off. What the hell.
A polite box blinked into my vision:
[Note: MILFs are inherently more attracted to the carrier of this system.]
"…Oh."
Of course. Cheat codes. Sexy cheat codes.
I froze for half a second, then my body sprinted ahead without asking me. My hands found her waist, jacket rough under my fingers, heat pouring off her.
Her mouth hit mine. She tasted like citrus and ozone, sharp and clean, like lightning had just kissed the air. My blood spiked.
I kissed back too hard. She laughed into my mouth—low, throaty. Not mocking. Just enjoying how bad I was at pacing myself.
"Slow down," she murmured, lips brushing mine before she bit. Sharp. Claiming. "Plenty of time."
Plenty of time. My brain didn't buy it. Rent. Pancakes. Boobs. Mara's voice: be boring, sexy. Wrong woman. Wrong time. Lightning ran up my spine anyway.
Her jacket slid off her shoulders and hit the floor heavy. My hands followed. She was solid everywhere—abs ridged under smooth skin, breasts full and straining against a black bra, thighs thick with muscle as she straddled me. My eyes got stuck on her cleavage, the bounce when she leaned closer, the way her bra barely held anything in.
"Holy shit," I whispered, staring like an idiot.
Her smile sharpened. "Better."
She shoved me back onto the bed like I weighed nothing. Springs squeaked. She climbed on top, thighs clamping my hips, heat pressed against me through jeans that were suddenly torture. Her storm-gray eyes locked on me, unblinking, daring me to move. Her hair had come loose, black strands streaked silver falling forward, brushing my chest as she leaned down.
"You're shaking," she said.
"Cold," I lied.
Her smirk widened. "Liar."
Her hand slid under my shirt. Nails dragged down my stomach, just enough to sting. My breath snapped. She yanked the shirt up, off, tossed it aside. Her storm eyes roamed over me like she was scoring a report.
"Better than I expected."
"Thanks," I wheezed. "I do push-ups."
Her laugh rumbled low in her throat. Her mouth claimed my neck, kissing, biting, sucking until my skin burned. My hips jerked against her without permission, cock already straining.
"Eager," she teased.
"Dying," I corrected.
Her hand slid lower. Belt gone. Pants yanked down in one practiced move. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, and when her hand wrapped me I gasped loud enough to embarrass myself.
She grinned against my ear. "Sensitive."
"New model," I muttered, panting.
Her laugh vibrated against my throat. Then her bra hit the floor. Her breasts spilled free—full, heavy, perfect. My hands reached without permission, squeezing, thumbing her nipples until she hissed into my mouth.
Her pants went next. Smooth thighs caging me. Heat wet and slick against the head of my cock. Her hair tumbled forward, strands sticking with sweat as she ground down once, twice, teasing. My brain short-circuited.
Then she sank onto me.
I groaned like she'd ripped something out of me. She was tight, hot, taking me inch by inch until she was seated fully, her ass pressed against my thighs. My eyes rolled back. My hands clawed her hips.
"Fuck—"
She smirked, storm eyes glowing faint in the dark. "Good?"
"Holy shit," I said again, because words had quit.
She rolled her hips slow, deliberate, her abs flexing, breasts bouncing just out of reach. I grabbed, pulled her down so they pressed against my chest, nipples brushing my skin. My cock throbbed inside her.
"You're trying so hard," she whispered, riding me slow, grinding every inch.
"I'm—yeah—trying not to—fuck—"
She slammed down harder. My words broke into noise. My hands gripped her ass, desperate, guiding her without actually guiding—she was already in control. Her pace built, faster, harder, her thighs flexing around me like steel bands. Sweat ran between us, her hair sticking to her face as she rode me.
The bed squeaked like it wanted to file a complaint. My moans turned raw, helpless.
She leaned down, breasts crushing against me, kissed me hard, tongue deep, pulling more sounds out of me.
"Come on," she growled. "Show me."
Her storm-gray eyes locked on mine, unblinking, daring me to hold out. I couldn't. Heat built too fast, unbearable, lightning coiled in my gut.
I gasped, tried to hold it, failed. Release ripped through me—white-hot, brutal, every nerve fried. My body arched, cock pulsing inside her as I came hard, pouring into her, vision going white.
She rode me through it, slowing only when I was twitching, milking every spasm out of me with brutal precision. My hands dug into her hips, useless, begging for mercy.
When it finally ended, I collapsed into the mattress, drenched in sweat, lungs scraping air. She sat on me, smirking like she'd just won a duel. Her breasts rose and fell, still glistening with sweat, hair sticking wild around her face, eyes glowing like stormlight.
"You look wrecked," she said.
"I am wrecked," I croaked.
She lifted off me slow, deliberate, leaving me hollow. My cock twitched anyway, already half-hard again. Of course it did. My horny slideshow brain didn't know when to quit.
She slid her jacket half on, nothing underneath, breasts still half-bared like she knew exactly what that would do to me.
A clean box blinked into my vision:
The system burned another box across my vision:
[Conquest Achieved]
Reward: Lightning Step (SSS-Rank) Note: Target "Selene" described you as reckless. System complied.
Another line blinked open:
[Skill: Lightning Step (SSS-Rank) Effect: Instantly cross up to 15 meters in any direction. Chain: Can be used up to 3 times in succession before cooldown. Cooldown: 2 seconds (resets after no use for 5 seconds). Secondary Effect: First strike after Lightning Step gains +100% attack speed and ignores enemy reaction time. Additional Effect: User becomes invulnerable during Step duration.]
I just stared. "Okay. That's not a step, that's a cheat code."
And then, like it wanted to rub it in:
[Conquest Bonus: Stat Allocation]
+15 Agility
+10 Strength
+5 Endurance
I laughed once, wheezing. "Cool. Totally normal. F-rank trash just unlocked teleport-spam with i-frames. Nobody panic
Selene smirked at the way I talked into the pillow. "You'll hear from me," she said, calm, certain, pulling her hair back into a loose tie.
Then she was gone. No sound. Just vanished like a storm slipping past.
I lay there wrecked, sweaty, sore, cock still twitching, staring at the ceiling crack. The band on my wrist pulsed warm. Fangpiercer hummed smugly on the table.
"Be boring, sexy," I whispered. Mara's words. Wrong time. Wrong woman. Then sleep dragged me under, hard.