He flipped her onto her back and she let him.
That was the thing. She let him. The woman who'd spent the last hour directing every beat and every angle, went boneless when he turned her over and looked up at him with dark eyes that had stopped pretending to be in charge.
Her hair was a wreck. Dark strands damp with sweat, stuck to her neck and her cheeks, spread across the white pillow in tangles. Her face was flushed deep, mascara smudged. Lips swollen. She looked nothing like the woman who'd walked onto that convention stage. She looked better.
He grabbed her ankles. Pushed her legs up over his shoulders. Her body folded, flexible, the stretch familiar from her hero work. He leaned forward and his weight settled onto her, pressing her into the mattress.
Mating press.
She felt the angle and her eyes rolled. "Oh. Oh, that's."
He pushed in.
Deep. Deeper than any position before it. The angle put him at the limit of what her body could take, pressing into places that made her jaw clench and her fingers grab the sheets. Three rounds of cum and her own wetness made the entry slick, obscene, the sound filling the quiet room.
He started moving and she stopped forming words.
"Nn. Hah. Ah. Don't. Ah."
His body covered hers completely. Chest to chest through the backs of her thighs, his face above hers, close enough to feel her breath on his chin. Every thrust pressed her deeper into the mattress. She couldn't move. Could only lie there and take what he gave her, and every inch of contact between their bodies fed the Vitality Drain and the Allure Aura and her aroma, all of it tangling in the humid air.
He looked down at her face. The woman who controlled every room she walked into, flushed and sweating underneath him, eyes unfocused, mouth open. The crease between her eyebrows deepening with each thrust. Her lips trembling when he bottomed out, her eyes rolling when the angle hit somewhere that made her whole body seize.
It fed on itself.
Every sound she made was involuntary now. She could hear herself and hearing herself made her face burn. The burning made her clench around him. The clenching made him thrust harder. Harder thrusts made her louder. Louder made her burn more. The cycle had no off switch.
The wetness was obscene. Three rounds of his cum inside her plus her own arousal, slick and audible with every thrust. The sound filled the bedroom. Rhythmic and wet. Undeniable. She could hear it and her face went redder every time it registered.
"Nn, hah, ah, don't stop."
She heard what she said. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her hands came up and covered her mouth, both of them, pressing hard against her lips like she could retroactively unspeak the words.
He pulled her hands away.
"I want to hear you."
Her eyes opened. Wide. Exposed. The mask completely gone, nothing between them but skin and sweat, the aroma that had turned the room into something almost liquid. She looked at him and he could see the war in her face. The part of her that wanted to close her eyes and reassemble the composure fighting against the part that was so far past composure it couldn't remember what it felt like.
He thrust deep. Held there. Her mouth opened and the sound came out uncovered.
"AH."
Loud and genuine. Hers.
She could hear her own sounds and her face burned. She could hear how wet she was, the evidence leaking around him onto the sheets, and her face burned harder. Then the aroma. It had filled the room completely, uncontrolled, dense, her Somnambulist quirk running at output levels she'd never reached outside of combat. She could smell it. He could see her smelling it. The awareness in her face, the knowledge that her body was broadcasting everything she was feeling to the entire apartment.
Each layer of embarrassment fed the arousal. The arousal fed the aroma. The aroma amplified the Allure Aura amplified her sensitivity amplified her sounds.
Sweat ran between their bodies. His forehead dripped onto her chest and the sheets underneath her were soaked. The room was humid with their heat and her aroma, the air heavy, every breath tasting like her.
Her hips started moving on their own. Pushing up against his thrusts, grinding against him when he bottomed out, her body chasing orgasms she wasn't choosing to have. Her walls clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, involuntary, her muscles doing what her brain had stopped directing.
She came. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Her hands flew back to her mouth. A strangled "Mm, nn" behind her palms, her body arching against the mating press, legs locking behind his neck. The orgasm hit her in waves, each one accompanied by a clench so tight he could barely move. She rode it out behind her hands, muffled, contained, the last defense.
He didn't stop.
She came again with her hands still over her mouth. Harder. Her eyes rolled back and her body convulsed and the muffled sounds got louder despite her palms. "NN. NNAH." She was trying to be quiet and failing and the failure was making her shake.
He came inside her.
She felt it. The warmth spreading, the pulse of him filling her for the third time. Her hands fell away from her mouth and her body clenched around him and she whispered something.
"Again."
Then her eyes went wide. She'd heard what she said. Her mouth opened, closed. The flush on her face went nuclear, so dark it was almost purple. She'd just asked for more. Out loud.
She grabbed his face and kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Her tongue in his mouth and her legs pulling him deeper and the kiss was at least fifty percent an attempt to hide her expression against his skin because if he saw her face right now she would never recover.
He gave her what she asked for.
More rounds. Her legs over his shoulders, pinned, the mating press relentless. She stopped covering her mouth because she couldn't maintain the effort. The sounds poured out of her, raw, broken, his name tangled with syllables that weren't words. "Riku, nn, ah, please, nn, ah."
Multiple orgasms. Each one pulled from her by the angle, the depth, the feedback loop between them that had turned her entire body into a receiver for stimuli she'd spent her adult life controlling. She came with her eyes open, looking at him, unable to look away. The next one hit with her face in his neck, biting his shoulder hard enough to break skin. Another one, silent, mouth open, nothing coming out, her body locked so tight he could feel her heartbeat through her walls.
He finished inside her one last time.
The pullout was slow. Deliberate. He slid out and she whimpered, a sound she would have called involuntary and that he would have called honest. Her body clenched around nothing, trying to hold him, failing. Cum leaked from her, pooling on the sheets, the evidence of four rounds visible and extensive.
She turned her face into the pillow.
Her aroma had been uncontrolled for the last twenty minutes. The bedroom was dense with it, the air almost visible. Her breathing was ragged, shaking, the long slow process of coming down from wherever she'd been.
He lay beside her. Didn't touch her. Gave her the space to put whatever she needed to put back together.
It took five minutes.
When she turned to face him, the mask was there. Thinner than paper. But there.
"Your stamina," she said. Her voice was destroyed. Barely above a whisper, raw at every edge. "Is beyond what the literature suggests for an incubus-type of your age."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment. It was a clinical observation." She pulled the sheet up to her chin. Her hands were trembling. She could see them trembling and she put them under the sheet where he couldn't. "Your pacing in the first round was adequate. Responsive but undisciplined. The second round showed improvement in reading physical cues."
Her voice was shot and her body was covered in marks and her aroma was still thick enough to taste. She kept going.
"The third round," she said. She paused. Swallowed. "The third round requires further analysis before I can provide feedback."
"Because you lost count of how many times you came?"
"Because the data was compromised by the pheromone interaction and I need to review it objectively." She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the ceiling, her jaw set, her neck rigid. The hickeys on her inner thighs were visible where the sheet had slipped. The nail tracks on his back stung when he shifted.
"I don't have a mask."
"You're giving me a performance review while your hands are shaking."
Silence. Her jaw worked. Under the sheet, her fingers curled into fists.
"My hands are not shaking."
"They are. You hid them."
More silence. The aroma in the room shifted. Softer now. Less charged. The professional shell she was rebuilding had a crack in it.
"This was educational," she said. Quieter. "I believe follow-up sessions will be necessary to properly document the quirk interaction."
"Follow-up sessions."
"Multiple. The data from a single encounter is insufficient for meaningful conclusions."
He looked at her. She was looking at the ceiling with her jaw set and her hair wrecked and sheet-creases on her cheek and hickeys on her collarbone and her hands hidden under the sheet because they wouldn't stop trembling. The composure was almost back. Almost. If you didn't know what to look for you might believe she was fine.
Riku knew what to look for.
"Hey," he said.
She didn't turn.
"Hey. Nemuri."
First name. She turned. Her eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with the lamplight.
"You don't have to be fine right now," he said.
Something in her face cracked. Not the composure. Something behind it, deeper, older. The thing she'd built the composure to protect. Her mouth opened and closed and she looked at him with an expression that was twenty years of being the woman who controlled everything meeting one evening where she hadn't.
She didn't say anything. She reached out from under the sheet with her trembling hand and put it on his chest. Just rested it there. The contact was warm and her Somnambulist aroma pulsed once, softly, at the point where her skin touched his.
Not a directive. Just her hand on his chest.
"Thursday," she said. "Same time."
"Thursday."
She closed her eyes. The mask settled back into place, worn through, patched where it had broken. Her breathing slowed. The drain's aftermath pulled her under, the pleasant exhaustion taking hold.
She fell asleep with her hand on his chest. The tremor finally stilled.
Riku watched the ceiling and listened to her breathe. Her aroma faded in slow degrees, the room cooling, the air clearing. From the street outside, a distant siren, then nothing.
Two women in two weeks. Different in every way that mattered. Yu was open water, loud and bright, performing even in her honesty. Nemuri was a locked room, the key hidden somewhere she'd forgotten, and tonight he'd picked the lock.
Both real. Both chosen.
He closed his eyes. The entrance exam was in eleven days. He was ready for it. He was ready for all of it.
He fell asleep beside her and his dreams, for the first time in weeks, were good.