Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!

The dragon capital hummed far below them, a thousand neon heartbeats pulsing in rhythm with the stars above.

The kiss wasn't a beginning.

It was a detonation.

Esmeralda's mouth crushed into his like a war declaration, her lips tasting of dark wine and centuries of withheld desire. She kissed like someone who'd held back for too long, and Pyris answered in kind—his hand curling around her lower back as her body pinned against the minibar with a soundless gasp.

Her breath hitched the second his aura bled out—that pink-gold heat like molten silk unraveling into the room. Her skin prickled in response as the air thickened with something wrong, something hot, something lethal.

It wasn't divine.

It was corrupted.

Lust made real. Desire incarnate. Power you didn't bow to, you drowned in it.

His Lust Halo shimmered like a barely visible crown, reacting instantly to her gaze, to her hands now roaming up the ridged wall of his chest. Her pupils dilated, blood red, lips slightly parted as her fangs grazed his bottom lip in tease and threat.

"Your skin burns," she breathed.

"And yours chills like a sin of lust," he murmured back, his voice velvet with edges.

The heat of him clung to her clothes. Her thighs squeezed around his hips as his Lust Body activated on its own, every brush of contact sending a pulse of pleasure through her nerves like electric silk. It wasn't sex. Not yet. But her body started reacting to him the way prey responded to apex predators—instinctual, inevitable. He didn't need to activate his abilities anymore; it was natural now.

His hand rose slowly, deliberately, trailing the line of her thigh until it reached the curve where skin met silk. She let out a breath—half moan, half growl.

"This dress…" he murmured.

She didn't stop him.

It peeled down her left shoulder like a curtain giving way to forbidden stagework. Smooth, pale skin revealed inch by inch. The fine lace of her bra was black and whisper-thin, barely hiding the swell beneath.

"Gods," he exhaled.

"Don't you dare call yourself that," she growled, biting his ear. "You're something far worse."

His grin was slow and dark. "You have no idea."

The Sex Pheromones kicked in. Subtle at first—a shift in scent, a bloom of heat in her core, the way her fingers trembled slightly as they clawed his shirt open, buttons flying. She didn't need him to explain. Her body was already syncing to his, her pulse climbing in rhythm to the scentless chemical compulsion of want.

She grabbed his belt and yanked it loose. He caught her wrist.

Not to stop her.

Just to assert control.

His grip was iron and silk. He leaned in, letting his corrupted breath trail down her neck. "You do know what happens if you keep touching me like that?"

She shivered. "Why don't you show me?"

With a growl low in his throat, he lifted her onto the counter like she weighed nothing. The dress hiked up, exposing long legs crossed in garters, and the bite of cold marble beneath her only contrasted the fire surging through her blood.

Her heels clattered to the floor.

His mouth latched onto her throat, kissing, sucking, biting where her pulse thundered. She moaned—low and raw. Every contact point set off another jolt. Her hands clawed down his back, and beneath her palms, she felt muscles twitch, ripple, tighten.

"You're worse than rumors," she gasped.

"You haven't earned the worst yet," he growled.

His hips pressed forward, grinding against her in perfect rhythm, not desperate, but calculated. His aura swirled around her like a noose of heat and tension. Her hands dug into his hair, yanking his head back. Their eyes met.

And Lust Corruption activated.

Only a touch. Only for a moment. A taste.

Her thoughts scattered. Logic thinned. Her pupils fluttered. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but her body betrayed her—arching into him, hips twitching, breath rapid.

He pulled back before it overwhelmed her, before it snapped her mind fully.

She gasped, eyes wild. "What the hell was that?"

He smirked. "You looked good being broken in."

"You beautiful asshole," she breathed, but it sounded like worship.

She kissed him again—this time her fangs grazed his tongue, and his groan vibrated down her throat.

He grabbed her thigh, pulled her flush against him, and she felt the outline of his Lust Champion's Erection press between her legs—thick, unrelenting, merciless.

Her breath hitched.

"Not yet," he said darkly. "You're not ready to feel all of me."

"Try me."

He leaned in, biting her neck. She cried out. Her nails raked down his chest. Her thighs trembled.

And then—he stopped.

Pulling back just enough, lips slick, eyes glowing softly pink-gold.

"Next time you ask for a gift," he whispered, "make sure you can survive it."

She stared up at him, panting, lips red, neck kissed and marked, skin flushed, thighs wet with anticipation.

And smiled like the predator she was.

"Then next time," she whispered back, licking her lip, "don't stop."

They didn't speak again. Not with words. But the minibar stayed shattered, her lipstick stained the inside of his collar, and the next time their eyes met?

Neither of them was pulling away.

His lips hovered just above hers.

Still. Breathing her. Not moving—just letting her feel the aftermath of what they'd unleashed. His corrupted lust aura still flooded the office like incense from a forbidden altar: pink-gold, humid, heavy. It pooled around their feet, curled up her thighs, and tangled between their chests like unseen rope.

Esmeralda's breath was broken. Her fangs still out. Her dress half-off, her skin flushed, her legs trembling around him.

She had centuries of control behind her. Centuries of noble restraint, of vampire politics, of being reminded by her bloodline that she wasn't enough—not strong, not useful, not dangerous. Not like Silas. Not like Dracula.

But here?

Now?

Pyris had unraveled her with a single kiss.

And it wasn't even close to over.

"You pulled back," she whispered, voice raw silk.

"I had to," he said, gaze locked to hers. "If I didn't… you wouldn't come back the same."

"Who says I want to come back the same?" she whispered.

Her hands moved to his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and for a moment—just a breath—she looked into his face like she was finally seeing what was beneath the charm. Not just the corrupted aura. Not just the magnetic bad boy grin. But the dragon coiled beneath it all.

Not a god. Not holy. Not fair.

He was Corrupted Lust. Made flesh.

And tonight, she wanted to surrender to it.

"I want to feel it," she said softly, lips nearly touching his again. "All of it. The claim. A bond with you."

His breath froze.

"You know what that means," he said.

"I do."

"You'll carry my Mark," he said. "You'll never be free of it. Not even in death."

She grinned.

"Then make it worth it."