NOVEL NEXT Chapter 1915: Out of Love
Villain Ch 1915. Out of Love
He was close.
And they knew it.
"Ohhh, you're there," Vivian whispered, licking a stripe up his throat. "You feel full, don't you?"
"Shut up," Allen managed, voice cracking.
"No," she said, and the others echoed it in breathless agreement.
They wanted to break him.
But not out of cruelty.
Out of love.
Out of obsession, out of longing, out of wild, dangerous loyalty that didn't ask for crowns or thrones—but for sweat and gasps and scars only they could leave.
And Allen—tied by their warmth, blindfolded by trust, dripping with affection he could no longer outwit—let them.
Because kings don't kneel easily.
But when they do—
It's holy.
Someone curled around him from behind, legs locking around his waist, arms around his chest. She bit his shoulder—not hard, just enough to make him jerk—and pressed her cheek to his.
"You're going to come, aren't you?" Larissa's voice was velvet-soaked sin. "Do it. Right now."
"I swear—" he groaned.
"Do it."
Her voice didn't ask.
It commanded.
He did.
His body arched, locked, and released in a wave so intense it made the world spin. The heat exploded in his chest, behind his eyes, in every inch of skin that they had kissed, scratched, and worshipped. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. Just breath. Then a broken, hoarse moan that didn't sound like him anymore.
And the girl—whoever was still riding him—shivered and gasped as if she could feel it too.
The room stilled.
Just for a breath.
No one spoke.
The only sound was Allen's breath, ragged and hot against flushed skin.
Then—
Someone laughed.
Zoe.
"You good, Emperor?" she asked, wickedly amused.
Allen exhaled through his nose. "No."
"You broke him," Alice whispered, awed.
"We broke him," Shea corrected.
He reached up and pulled the blindfold off slowly.
His hair was sweat-mussed, lips red, chest marked with lipstick prints and tiny bite bruises. He looked wrecked. Beautifully. Thoroughly.
He blinked at them through lashes still heavy with aftermath, voice low and ruined.
"That was illegal."
Vivian, still half-draped over him, smirked. "And?"
"I'm filing complaints," he muttered.
"To who?" Bella challenged. "The HR department of your own harem?"
He opened his mouth.
Paused.
Then snorted. "...Fair point."
The girls burst into laughter—relieved, drunk on affection, eyes glowing with post-chaos adrenaline.
Azura, still curled near the foot of the couch, peeked up. "I didn't even do anything."
"You moaned," Allen said flatly. "That counts."
"I got shy!"
"You're always shy until you're not," he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "That's the worst kind of weapon."
She squeaked again and buried her face in a cushion.
He let out a long breath. "Alright. I get it. I lost."
"No," Jane said, running a hand through his hair. "You let us win."
"Same thing," Alice muttered, her head on his shoulder now. "We needed this."
Zoe curled into his side, one leg draped over his. "So did he."
That he was theirs. And they were his.
That affection could be power. And surrender could be sacred.
He closed his eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he let their warmth hold him.
They were right.
He had needed this.
Not just the sex.
Not just the game.
But the reminder.
That he could feel like this.
Torn open by affection. Claimed and craved and clawed at by the ones he trusted to wreck him—beautifully.
And yet—he smiled.
Because they thought he'd broken.
Thought they'd won.
But Allen?
Allen was still playing.
The blindfold stayed on, knotted tight behind his head, fabric soaked faintly with heat. But his hands?
His hands moved.
Slow. Controlled. Mapping bodies. Drawing shapes into thighs. Tracing rib cages. Curling into hair. Dragging fingertips up spines like he was reading them in braille.
And one by one…
They kept coming.
His lap was never empty for long.
Every shift of weight. Every new heat. Every sudden drop of breath near his ear was a new wave—fresh, bold, demanding.
They weren't gentle anymore. Not shy.
They didn't ask.
They took.
But Allen let them.
Because kings don't beg. They allow.
Someone climbed into his lap again. Hips pressing forward. Her fingers slid into his hair and tugged his face to hers—forehead to forehead. He felt her panting. She was already shaking.
"You're ridiculous," she breathed.
"You're addicted," he replied, voice low.
He felt the drag of her hips again—satin heat rolling down his stomach. Her thighs trembled. Her lips hovered over his.
"Guess who?" she whispered.
"I don't need to guess."
He kissed her.
It was rough. Deep. Teeth scraped. Tongues collided. His hands grabbed her hips mid-roll and pulled her down harder. He felt her cry into his mouth, hips bucking forward, chasing his rhythm now.
She said his name. Not once. Again and again.
Not like a title.
Not like a plea.
Like a spell.
His name—"Allen"—dripped off her lips like wine off stained silk. And each time she moaned it, he felt the pressure in his gut spike higher.
Another rode him in near silence. No dirty talk. Just breath. Sweat. Skin. She leaned her forehead to his temple, holding him like a confession, like she didn't want to share the moment with air or light or time. Her breath stuttered as she moved, and Allen felt her body sing around him—desperate and gorgeous and his.
Still blindfolded, he turned his face toward her, kissed the edge of her jaw, and whispered, "That's Azura."
She gasped, froze for a second.
"Don't stop now," he murmured, guiding her hips with one hand, his voice velvet-laced steel. "You're doing so well."
And she melted.
After her—another. And another.
At some point, time broke. The room swam in gold. Sunlight spilled across bare legs and bitten lips. Someone's laugh echoed against the glass windows while another whimpered into Allen's neck.
He wasn't speaking anymore.
Not much.
Just low groans. Tight curses. The occasional smirked "try harder."
Because he was close again.