Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 208: Pin me harder* (2)

Damien's hand pressed her down.

Firm. Immovable. The weight of it was enough to keep her pinned to the bed, her wrists caught in the ghost of his earlier grip even though he didn't restrain her now. He didn't need to.

Her body obeyed all on its own.

His cock nudged against her entrance, slow, deliberate, his breath dragging through his teeth as he watched the way her body twitched—tiny, unconscious flinches as the thick head of him slid through her slick valley. He didn't push inside yet. No. He savored it. The way her legs trembled. The way her eyes fluttered open, confusion written there.

'She doesn't even realize she's inviting it,' he thought, half-wild with the effort of restraint.

Slowly, inexorably, he pressed forward—parting her folds with painstaking care, letting her feel every inch of him. The first real breach made her gasp—sharp and small, her hips jerking in instinctive resistance even as her thighs tightened around his waist.

He paused.

Not to be kind.

But to savor.

Because he could feel it now. The way her body clenched and shivered under the unfamiliar intrusion, the way her heartbeat hammered against his chest.

'She's fighting herself. Not me.'

He bit back a groan, tightening his grip on her hip to steady her as he pushed deeper. The heat of her wrapped around him, wet and impossibly tight. Every inch he claimed was a battle—not with her, but with her own innocence, her own cold training that had taught her not to react, not to feel, not to need.

She whimpered.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

A thin, broken sound that scraped straight down his spine and made his cock throb inside her untouched walls.

Damien leaned down, his forehead brushing hers, sweat dampening the space between them.

"You're doing so well," he whispered, voice low, wrecked with the violence of how much he was holding back.

Her eyes blinked up at him—green, dazed, uncertain—and the faintest tremor passed through her lips.

'She doesn't even know what she's craving,' he thought, almost vicious with tenderness. 'No one ever taught her how to want.'

His hips rolled, sliding deeper, and her whole body jolted under him—small, reflexive spasms of overwhelmed nerves firing without permission. Her thighs clamped tighter against him, her fingernails scraping lightly across his shoulders as if trying to anchor herself to the only solid thing in the world.

Him.

Damien gritted his teeth.

Because, it was too much—the feel of her wrapped around him, struggling and yielding at once. The slick velvet pull of her body trying to eject him even as it sucked him deeper.

Almost fully inside.

Almost.

And still—

She whimpered again.

A higher, sharper sound this time. One that made his heart beat like a drum inside his ribs.

And when he looked down—

He saw it.

The faintest glimmer of moisture at the corners of her eyes. The slightest bite of her lower lip between her teeth.

Not fear.

Not pain.

But something else.

Something darker. Needier.

Something she didn't know how to name yet.

'Ah…'

Damien's chest rumbled with the sound of it—a soundless growl of possession so deep it barely made it to his lips.

'You like it when it hurts a little, don't you?'

He pushed forward, the final few inches sliding inside her—slow but unrelenting—until his hips met the curve of hers, buried fully now, his cock throbbing deep inside the tight clutch of her untouched body.

Elysia cried out.

Not loud.

Not angry.

But raw.

And, it nearly undid him.

His hand slid up her side, slow and soothing, tracing the tremble of her ribs, the hitch of her breath, the taut muscles of her thighs straining against him.

He watched her. Studied her.

Every reaction.

Every twitch.

Every tiny, instinctive clench around his cock as her body tried—and failed—to process the overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely.

'You don't know it yet, little maid,' he thought, letting his hips grind just slightly against her, making her gasp again, 'but you were made for this.'

He dipped his head lower, mouth grazing her ear.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice molten silk. "You can take more, can't you?"

Elysia whimpered again, her fingers clawing into the sheets now, nails dragging mindlessly as her hips bucked once—just once—against him.

She didn't answer with words.

She didn't need to.

Her body did it for her.

And Damien—Damien smiled against her skin.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew—only an inch, enough to make her feel the loss—and then pushed back in, deeper, grinding his hips until she arched up into him with a broken, needy sound.

'Yes,' he thought, dark and proud.

'My cold little blade is learning to melt.'

And Damien—

He was going to enjoy every second of it.

*****

Damien stayed deep inside her.

Motionless.

Savoring.

Elysia's chest heaved against his, every breath a ragged, unconscious plea. Her thighs tightened, loosened, then tightened again, her body caught in a silent war between shame and need.

Need that she didn't even know how to name yet.

But he did.

He felt it in the way her hips shifted—tiny, trembling motions, barely-there tilts and curls as she tried to adjust herself under him.

Seeking.

Instinctive.

Desperate.

'There it is,' Damien thought, the corner of his mouth curling.

'You're chasing it.'

And, he could've ended her right there—just a single thrust, angled a little higher, a little deeper, right against the spot he already mapped out from weeks of training, of watching, of learning her.

He could've shattered her without mercy.

But he didn't.

Instead, he pulled back—slow, unhurried—dragging himself through her tight, wet heat in a way that teased her trembling walls but never struck the place she was aching for. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

Then he slid back in.

Smooth. Cruel.

Just slightly off.

Deliberately missing the spot she craved.

Elysia gasped again—softer this time, more confused. Her hips arched instinctively, trying to catch him, trying to angle herself differently. But every time—

—he shifted.

Subtle. Patient.

Denying her without words.

Her hands fisted tighter into the sheets. Her breath hitched and stuttered, the frustration building in the shallow tremors wracking her body.

Her cold discipline, her training, her armor—none of it was helping her now.

She shifted again.

A tiny roll of her hips. A minute widening of her thighs. Seeking. Yearning.

And Damien watched her.

Watched her unravel.

'So beautiful,' he thought, almost reverently.

'You don't even realize how much you're giving away.'

He slowed further, grinding into her with a deliberate rhythm that fed the hunger but never satisfied it. Keeping her on the knife's edge. Letting her squirm and writhe under him, closer and closer to begging without even realizing it.

Then—

Her eyes.

Dark green, wide, dazed with heat and frustration—

Met his.

'Heh…'

Damien felt more blood pumping to down there.

Because what he saw there wasn't the cold maid.

Wasn't the trained blade.

It was raw.

Open.

Wild.

Desire.

Shameless, breathless, helpless desire.

He stared into her.

And she stared back, wordless but pleading, her thighs trembling around his waist, her hips still shifting in small, desperate motions against him.

'You want it,' he thought, something savage and tender wrapping tight around his ribs.

'You want it so badly, and you don't even know how to ask for it.'

Damien lowered his mouth to her throat again, lips brushing hot against her fevered skin as he murmured—soft, cruel, indulgent:

"Poor little maid…"

He licked a slow line up her pulse.

"Even your body knows what it needs."

He pulled out just slightly—

—then slid back in, a fraction closer to that devastating spot—

—and stopped.

Not enough.

Never enough.

Elysia whimpered aloud now, the sound cracking in the back of her throat. Her fingers reached blindly for him—grabbing at his shoulders, his back—anything to anchor herself to the storm tearing through her.

Her green eyes shimmered up at him again.

Full of silent, aching, need.

And Damien smiled against her skin.

Dark. Patient.

Triumphant.

'Beg for it, my dear maid,' he thought, shifting his hips again—just out of reach of her pleasure.

'I want to see you break for me.'