100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 702: Chapter 701- Meeting the Dara and Barenga

His mouth opened. His tongue found her lips. Pushed between them. Her mouth yielded. The tongue entered. Found hers. The contact, the wet, warm, ’our-tongues-are-touching’ contact, made her body shudder against his.

"Mmm—" she moaned into his mouth. The sound was muffled. Swallowed by the kiss. The vibration traveled through their joined lips. Her hands, on his waist, tightened. Her fingers dug into his shirt. The fabric tore further.

His tongue explored her mouth. The inside of her cheeks. The roof of her palate. The underside of her tongue. The kiss was not gentle anymore. It was claiming. Possessive. The ’you-are-mine’ kiss that he gave every woman, delivered with the same intensity, the same hunger, the same ’I-will-take-everything-you-have’ drive.

"Mmph—♡ mm—♡ nnh—♡" Her moans came in rhythm with the kiss. Each stroke of his tongue produced a sound. Each push produced a gasp. Each withdrawal produced a whimper. The cycle. The pattern. The music of a woman being kissed into submission.

Her body pressed harder against his. Her breasts, the large, unrestrained mounds, deformed against his chest. Her belly, thick and soft, pushed against his abdomen. Her hips, wide and full, ground against his. The contact, the full-body, ’every-inch-of-me-against-every-inch-of-you’ contact, was overwhelming.

His hands on her ass squeezed. Pulled the cheeks apart. Pushed them together. Kneaded. The flesh, warm and malleable, responded to every movement. Her panty, stretched to its limit, dug into her flesh. The elastic cut red lines into her skin.

"Ahh—♡" she gasped, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second. The gasp was sharp. The ’your-fingers-are-squeezing-too-hard’ gasp that was half pain and half pleasure. Then his mouth found hers again. The kiss resumed. Deeper. Wetter. Their tongues tangled. The saliva, mixed, ran from the corner of her mouth. Down her chin.

"Mmm—♡ mmph—♡ ahh—♡ Viktor—♡"

His name, spoken into the kiss, was barely audible. The muffled, ’I-am-saying-your-name-while-your-tongue-is-in-my-mouth’ sound that was both confession and prayer.

He pulled out.

The kiss broke. A string of saliva connected their lips. The strand stretched, thinned, broke. Fell onto Evriana’s chest, between her breasts, running down into the cleavage.

They gasped. Both of them. The simultaneous, ’we-forgot-to-breathe’ gasp of two people who had been kissing for thirty seconds without air.

Evriana’s eyes were half-lidded. Dazed. The ’I-just-kissed-my-nephew-and-I-liked-it’ glaze that she couldn’t hide. Her lips, swollen from the pressure, were wet. Red. Her chest heaved. The breasts, straining against the torn dress, rose and fell.

His hand found her breast. Over the fabric. He kneaded. The large, soft mound filled his palm. His fingers sank. The nipple, stiff beneath the fabric, pressed against his hand.

"Should we go?" he said. The question was casual. The same tone he always used. The ’we-just-made-out-but-life-goes-on’ tone that made her want to hit him and kiss him simultaneously.

Evriana nodded. The motion was small. Dazed. The ’yes-anything-you-say’ nod of a woman whose brain hadn’t fully rebooted.

Viktor looked toward the demon girl. Still tied to the wall. Still glaring. Her crimson eyes, which had witnessed the entire kiss, were burning with a mixture of disgust and envy and the ’I-am-still-tied-here-and-no-one-cares’ frustration.

"What will we do with her?" Evriana asked. Her voice was still breathy. She hadn’t fully recovered.

Viktor looked at the demon girl. At the ash-grey skin. At the crimson eyes. At the body, stretched and bound and barely covered.

"Take her," he said. The command was directed at the demon girl. "Ass up, slave."

The demon girl’s body shivered. The chains rattled. Her crimson eyes widened. The ’you-are-not-going-to-do-what-I-think-you-are-going-to-do’ fear.

"No," she said. The word was tight. Strained. "Stop. You don’t — we’ve already killed my—"

She stopped. The memory hit. The Demon King kin that she had been summoned by. The sacrifice. The cave where Viktor had first taken her. The cock in her mouth. The humiliation.

"You want to just kill me already?" she finished. The words came out as a whisper. The ’please-just-end-it’ whisper of a woman who had accepted death as preferable to continued existence under this man’s control.

Viktor laughed. The sound was warm. Genuine. The ’you-think-I-would-kill-you’ amusement that made the demon girl’s eye twitch.

"Nah, I’m not," he said. "Stand up."

The demon girl’s body moved. Not by her own will. The Demon Sovereign’s authority, the absolute command over demon-kin that Helena had acquired and Viktor had absorbed through their connection, activated. The binding ropes, which should have held her, released. Not physically cut. Not untied. The ropes simply let go, as if the material itself recognized a higher authority.

She stood. Her legs, weak from two days of being tied, trembled. Her whole body shook. The ash-grey skin rippled with involuntary muscle contractions.

"No," she whispered. Her crimson eyes, wide, panicked, found Viktor’s face. "What is this? My — why — my body is not listening to me."

The demon girl looked at her own hands. At her own feet. At her own body, standing without her permission. Moving without her consent. The ’I-am-a-puppet’ realization that made her stomach drop.

Viktor didn’t explain. He turned. Found Evriana’s arm. Threaded his through hers. The gesture was intimate. Civilized. The ’we-are-a-couple-walking-through-the-forest’ posture that made Evriana blush and the demon girl seethe.

They walked out of the cave. Into the forest.

The morning light was bright. The trees, tall and green, filtered the sun through their canopy. The air was fresh. Clean. The contrast with the damp, mineral-smelling cave was stark. Birds sang. Insects buzzed. The forest was alive.

The demon girl followed. Behind them. Her body walked without her control. Her feet moved. Her legs stepped. Her arms swung. Every motion was dictated by the Demon Sovereign’s authority. She was a passenger in her own body. A prisoner who couldn’t even control her own stride.

"Viktor," Evriana said. Her voice was quiet. The brown eyes, still red-rimmed, looked at him with the ’I-don’t-know-how-to-feel-about-this’ expression. "About what happened—"

"Don’t," he said. The word was gentle. Not harsh. The ’you-don’t-have-to-explain’ gentleness that surprised her. "It happened. It was good. Let’s leave it at that."

Evriana’s blush deepened. Her hand, on his arm, tightened. The ’thank-you-for-not-making-this-weirder’ squeeze that was both gratitude and affection.

They walked for twenty minutes. The forest thinned. The trees gave way to a clearing. A dirt road, wide enough for a wagon, cut through the grass.

Two figures appeared. Running. Toward them.

Dara came first. The dark-skinned woman, her hair braided, her body lean and muscular, sprinted through the clearing. Her face, usually composed and serious, was broken into a wide, unguarded smile. The ’my-husband-is-back’ smile that she couldn’t suppress.

Berenga was behind her. The commander of the night order, the tall, thick-bodied woman with the massive breasts and the wide hips, ran with less grace but more enthusiasm. Her armor, the half-plate she usually wore, was absent. She was in casual clothes. A simple tunic. Leggings. The tunic, stretched tight across her chest, looked like it was fighting a losing battle.

Both women hit him at the same time.

"VIKTOR—!"

Dara’s arms wrapped around his neck. Her body, lean and firm, pressed against his front. Her face buried into his shoulder. Her hands gripped his back.

Berenga’s arms wrapped around his waist. Her body, thick and soft, pressed against his side. Her breasts, enormous even compressed, flattened against his arm. Her face found his other shoulder.

"You’re back—" Dara whispered. Her voice was thick. The ’I-was-worried’ thickness that she would never admit to in public.

"We missed you—"