Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 147: A maid’s night (3)

Damien didn't say a word.

He just moved.

Stood in a single, fluid motion—his arms sliding under her thighs and back in one clean sweep, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. As if she belonged there. As if he'd been meant to carry her all along.

Elysia gasped—just softly—but it was there. Her legs instinctively tightened around his waist, and her hands—

They came up slowly, hesitantly, and then rested around the back of his neck. Not clinging. Not fearful. Just bracing. Gentle fingers curling at his nape like she was trying to steady herself… or accept that she was already steady with him.

"Y-Young master…?" she whispered.

Her voice trembled.

But her arms stayed.

Her breath hitched the second his mouth met her neck again.

Smooch.

Damien pressed his lips into the curve where her jaw met her throat, open-mouthed and possessive, letting her taste him in the rawest way—no armor, no titles. Just him. Just her.

She shivered in his grip. He felt it ripple through her spine.

And then—

"Hmm…"

His mouth opened wider. Teeth grazed soft skin.

And bit.

Not cruelly. But firmly. Like he wanted her to remember.

Elysia flinched—her whole body jumped slightly in his arms.

"Ah—!"

It wasn't a scream.

It wasn't even pain.

It was a moan.

Small. Broken. Disbelieving.

Her fingers twitched at the back of his neck, clenching ever so slightly—like her body didn't know whether to push him away or pull him in.

Damien pulled back just enough to look at her.

She was flushed. Entire face lit up in shades of crimson that spread all the way down her throat. Her breath was sharp, caught between embarrassment and something far darker. Far more honest.

Her eyes met his.

Horrified.

"Y-Young master…" she breathed again, softer this time, voice tinged with shame and disbelief. She looked like she didn't understand what she'd just done. What her body had just done.

Damien stared at her.

And he grinned.

'Ah… how cute…'

The thought barely had time to finish before his lips curved further—hungry, indulgent, smug—and his voice dropped low. Commanding. Intimate.

"Kiss me."

She froze.

His arms never loosened.

Her thighs still cradled his hips.

His heartbeat thundered between them, steady and unrelenting.

He began walking, slow, unhurried steps down the corridor toward the bedroom, his grip secure as if she was the most precious thing he'd ever carried—and the most dangerous.

"Now," Damien whispered, gaze locked to hers.

"While I carry you."

She didn't answer.

Didn't ask why.

Didn't resist.

Her breath trembled once—soft, silent—but her hands slid higher around his neck. Her face tilted upward, mouth parted just enough to bare her hesitation.

And then—

She kissed him.

Damien felt it immediately.

Not just the contact.

But the inexperience.

The press of her lips was soft, almost too light, as if she wasn't sure how much pressure was allowed. She tilted her head—but not enough. Her nose bumped against his cheek, and her lips hesitated like they were waiting for instruction.

There was none.

He gave her nothing.

Because this—gods, this—was better than any lesson he could've given.

Elysia was kissing him.

Clumsily. Nervously. Like someone who had only studied the theory, never the application.

And he loved it.

Her lips moved again, still awkward, still unsure. He felt the warm flick of her tongue as she tried to mimic what he had done earlier—but it barely made it past her teeth. Then—

Click.

She bumped into his.

And instantly—instantly—her tongue retreated like it had touched fire.

Damien nearly groaned from how adorable it was.

Her breath stuttered against his lips. She paused, frozen mid-kiss, clearly mortified. He could feel the tension in her spine, the tight grip of her thighs bracing for some reprimand, some correction.

He gave her none.

He kept walking.

Slow, steady steps down the corridor, Elysia in his arms, lips still brushing his.

And he let her try again.

She did.

Tentatively.

This time, she pressed in a little firmer. Her mouth moved a touch slower. She opened for him—not to be taken, but to give—and her tongue flicked out once more. It still fumbled. Still hesitated. But this time, she didn't flinch away.

Damien's pulse thundered through his arms, but he didn't push her. Didn't guide her. Didn't dominate.

He just held her.

And let her learn him.

Her kisses came in soft bursts—awkward, warm, intimate things that lacked rhythm but overflowed with effort. Like she was exploring a language she'd never been taught. And every mistake only made her more precious.

She tilted her head again—better this time. Her lips brushed his lower, then upper, then lingered in a tender press before trying again. Her tongue moved with more bravery now, still cautious, still a little too careful, but Damien could feel the slow unspooling of her fear.

And he adored it.

He adored the way she tried to lead.

The way she kept kissing even when her breath faltered.

The way she searched for him, slowly, nervously, but with intent.

He didn't interrupt her.

He let her take all the time she needed. All the space.

Because her clumsy kisses were not failures.

They were proof.

Proof that the maid who had once frozen at the brush of a hand was now laying herself bare—awkwardly, beautifully—against his mouth.

Gods, he loved this feeling.

Every soft, uneven kiss she gave him—every faltering stroke of her tongue that pulled back too quickly or pressed in too shyly—it made his chest ache. His restraint unravel. Not from frustration.

From adoration.

And something deeper. Darker.

Something he'd been swallowing down since the moment she first spoke his name like it meant something.

Desire.

Real desire. The kind that burned in the belly and twisted around the ribs and shook a man until he couldn't breathe straight.

And it surged now. Violently. Unrelentingly.

His arms tightened around her. His grip shifted, adjusted—just subtly. But enough.

Enough to press her closer. To mold her tighter to his chest. To feel the heat of her breath stutter when her kiss landed a little too deep, a little too bold—and she surprised even herself.

Damien's steps picked up.

Faster.

He didn't mean to. Didn't decide.

It just happened.

One step. Then another. Then another, quicker still.

His boots hit the polished floor harder now. Urgently. With purpose. Bedroom in sight—every second of delay unbearable. Her thighs pressed against him with every stride, and he felt it. Felt her.

Slender, yes. But honed. The shape of someone built in discipline, in pain. A body forged for battle, yet so unaware of how devastatingly beautiful it was to simply be held like this.

He couldn't take it.

His fingers—already curled behind her legs—pressed in.

First lightly.

Then deeper.

Into the curve of her thigh where muscle met softness, where the heat of her bled through the fabric, and he could imagine—almost feel—what lay beneath. His thumb brushed up, along the inside seam, slow and reverent.

Elysia gasped into his mouth.

He didn't stop.

Couldn't.

He kissed her again—deeper this time, finally meeting her faltering rhythm with his own. His tongue rolled over hers, coaxing it gently, slowly, as if to teach her by feel rather than force.

She trembled.

But she didn't pull away.

Her breath hitched—shallow, fast—and her mouth opened wider. More receptive now. Still shy, still clumsy, but hungry.

His.

Her tongue met his again, and this time, when she flicked too hard against his teeth, she didn't flinch. She adjusted. She tried again. She gave him that tiny, uncertain swirl of effort that made his cock throb behind the strained fabric of his pants.

The bedroom door was close now. Too close. Not close enough.

He adjusted his grip again, one hand still braced under her thighs—but now his thumb traced slow, circular paths against the muscle just below her hemline. Her skin burned through the cloth. Her breath quivered against his jaw.

Elysia's tongue flicked again—almost desperate now.

Damien swallowed the sound she made.

Damien shoved the door open with his shoulder—harder than he meant to.

It banged lightly against the wall, but he didn't care.

He was breathing too fast.

Holding her too tight.

His arms—gods, his arms were burning. Not just from the weight, but from the tension. The restraint. The effort it took not to crush her against him and claim her right there on the floor.

She was light, but not in the way that made it easy.

She was light in the way that made him feel everything. Every shift of her thighs against his hips. Every breath she exhaled into his mouth. Every tremor that passed through her when her body forgot she wasn't supposed to react like this.

And now—he could feel her heat through every inch of him.

His forearms strained beneath her thighs, muscles twitching.

He clenched his jaw.

One more step.

Just one.

He crossed the threshold and turned—slowly, deliberately—and then lowered her toward the bed like she was something holy.

Her back hit the sheets with a soft thump, her hair fanning out across the pillow like it had given up trying to obey any order but gravity. Her cheeks were flushed—scarlet and raw. Her lips—wet and parted—moved slightly, like she didn't know if she should say something or just keep breathing.

Her chest rose and fell fast.

And her eyes—those sharp, glass-green eyes that had once frozen men in their tracks—looked wrecked.

Not in pain.

Not in fear.

But in some quiet, soul-deep unraveling she didn't yet know how to control.

Damien stood over her for a long second.

Breathing. Watching.

His arms ached now. The burn settling deep into the muscle. But he didn't care.

He would've carried her another mile.

He would've held her until his body gave out.

Because this—this—was the reward.

Elysia, lying beneath him, not as a soldier.

Not as a tool.

But as a woman undone.

------------A/N--------------

The following chapters will be R-18.

Just a reminder.

Also, feel free to leave feedback on the following scenes' writing.