10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 208 - What a Selfish Bastard

The translucent gold letters didn’t announce themselves with a trumpet. They just ’appeared’—hovering at the edge of his vision like a patient creditor who had finally come to collect.

[ HeartSync — SSS+ → Transcendent ]

[ Acquisition: MAXED ]

[ No Further Sync Possible with Source ]

He stared at it. One second. Two.

A slow, long beat where his brain simply refused to do anything useful.

His mouth twitched.

"What the hell."

Not a question. Just three syllables that fell out of his mouth the same way a man drops something heavy—accidentally, and with immediate regret.

Because right in front of him, at hip level, knelt Lira. Still soaked. Pink hair plastered in dark cotton-candy streaks against the sharp line of her jaw. Golden eyes half-lidded and entirely too composed for a woman currently barefoot on wet shower tile. Steam curled around the pale curves of her bare shoulders.

And she heard the flatness in his voice.

Something played at the corner of her bruised lips. Not quite a smirk. Just the very early architecture of one.

She leaned in.

Her tongue touched the base of his shaft. Right at the root, where the skin was tight and flushed and still bearing the raw evidence of the last twenty minutes. She pressed it flat—and ’dragged’ it upward.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like working her way up a melting ice cream on a summer afternoon that she had absolutely no intention of finishing fast. The wet flat of her tongue traced every thick vein running the underside, mapped the ridge, curled at the crown with a motion that was almost artistic in its patience. A single, obscenely soft swipe over the weeping slit at the tip—and then she started over. Base to crown. Again.

His palm hit the wet shower wall.

"What—" The word came out rough. "Come on."

She hummed.

’"Mhmmm~..."’

The vibration traveled straight through the sensitive skin, shot up his spine, and made his thigh muscle lock. His semi-soft length gave a deep, involuntary throb in response, the blood coming back faster than any man had a right to expect at this point. She felt it. He could tell by the way her lashes dropped another fraction.

Her lips wrapped around the head.

Just the head.

She hollowed her cheeks and ’sucked’—slow, building, incredibly thorough. Like she was drawing something all the way from the root. Saliva and shower water mixed and spilled from the stretched corners of her lips in thin silver ribbons, dripping down her chin, pattering soft against the tops of her bare breasts. Her small throat worked around the effort, and she kept her golden eyes locked upward on his the entire time.

He stared down at her.

A laugh broke from him. Low, from the gut—the genuine kind that surfaced when reality decided to be funny in a very personal, very inconvenient way.

"You know," he said, something lazily amused in the dark roll of his voice, one thumb rising to brush a soaked strand of pink from her flushed cheek with a touch too soft for what was happening, "five minutes ago you were ’crying’."

She didn’t stop. Her lips slid fractionally further. A small, muffled sound against him.

’"Mhnnh~..."’

"Right there. In my arms." He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful, cataloguing her reaction the way he catalogued everything—with quiet, fascinated precision. "Calling me ’evil’, if I’m remembering right. Or something in that territory." He watched her throat work. "There was definitely a ’monster’ in there somewhere. I thought I heard ’demon’ at some point, but the acoustics in here are—"

Her golden eyes narrowed.

He chuckled.

She released him with a slow, deliberate ’pop’—

A thick string of spit drew out between her lips and his glistening tip, stretched, and snapped. She didn’t wipe it. She let it fall.

Then she rose.

Not fast. Not angry. She ’rose’—hips rolling first, spine unfurling vertebra by vertebra, arms trailing up his thighs for balance—the motion so unhurried it felt almost architectural. Her small breasts lifted up his abdomen like a tide coming in, soft weight pressing warm and full against the ridged plane of his stomach as she climbed. The stiff, flushed peaks caught on the lower edge of his pectoral with each breath he drew, dragging against the muscle—

A barely-there "’Hmm—’" slipped from her before she swallowed it. Composed herself. Kept rising.

She arrived at eye level.

Both palms rose and curved around the sides of his jaw. Slender fingers against rough stubble—holding his face the way someone holds a lantern they aren’t entirely sure won’t burn them. He let her. His hands rested loose at his sides, patient. The shower spray fell over their shoulders in equal measure, washing down both their chins.

Her golden eyes held his.

A long, quiet second passed. The steam moved between them.

"It doesn’t matter," she said.

Flat. Quiet. Stripped entirely of the ragged edge from ten minutes ago, like the crying had been a different woman in a different room.

"I changed my mind." Her thumb traced the line of his jaw—slow, almost involuntary, a gesture her hand made without consulting her brain. "My sister is alright. That’s what I needed." A pause. "That’s ’all’ I needed."

He said nothing. Just watched her.

"And you—" Her thumb stilled. Something shifted behind her irises—not warmth, not warmth exactly, but something layered and old and not entirely willing to be named. "I already know your habits. You know that. You’re not going to stop chasing me." The words were delivered with zero heat. Just the flat, exhausted logic of a woman who had done the math and didn’t like the sum. "And you’ve already been—" Her throat moved. "—’there.’ Inside me."

His expression didn’t move.

"I hate all of this," she finished. Low. Plain. Honest in the way only really tired people are honest.

He looked at her.

Then the corner of his mouth pulled—not the theatrical smirk, not the cruel one. Just a small, private thing that didn’t live on his public face.

"Good to know," he murmured.

She scoffed. Dropped her hands from his jaw.

And then her fingers wrapped around his half-hardened length. Warm, sure grip—deliberate. She wasn’t asking. She pulled him forward and tilted her hips, guiding the blunt, still-heavy tip to brush against the damp heat between her thighs. Not inside. Just ’against’—rubbing it in slow, shallow circles over her already-slicked folds, her own body betraying the statement she’d just made in the most immediate way possible.

The contact arrived like a lit fuse.

Her breath caught first. A soft "’Hn—’" that she tried immediately to swallow back.

Then his hands moved.

Both palms came down on her ass with a claim that left no room for interpretation—fingers spreading wide over the soft curves, grip firm, absolutely immovable—and he pulled her hips back a fraction until the contact broke entirely.

She shot him a look.

He tilted his head. "No."

"Crux—"

"I already told you." His grip didn’t loosen. His thumbs began slow, deliberate circles into the small of her back—the only softness in the entire statement. "I want that on our wedding night."

The silence between them had texture.

Her glare could have cut glass.

"Tch... always dividing whatever you want... selfish bastard."