I pulled her hips up and back until she was on her knees with her chest pressed against the mattress, face still buried in the pillow, ass in the air with my handprints decorating both cheeks in overlapping red maps. The position put everything on display.

The soaked fabric at mid-thigh. The stockings still holding on. The milk that had run down her stomach earlier now smearing across the dark sheets beneath her.

I dropped my mouth to her breast where it pressed sideways against the mattress, found the nipple, and sealed.

\[You drink a mouthful of milk from a Silver-tier target. As a result, you get 50 points!\]

Dark chocolate. Cayenne. The taste of someone who had spent her entire life convincing the world she didn’t need tenderness and was just now discovering what happened when someone gave it to her anyway, wrapped in enough roughness that she didn’t have to feel ashamed about wanting it.

My other hand slid between her legs from behind.

She was so wet that two fingers went in without resistance, her body accepting me like it had been waiting for exactly this, and her inner walls clenched immediately around my knuckles in rhythmic pulses that matched the suction on her breast. I curled upward and found the spot that made Naomi scream and Belle swear and Aurora forget every language she knew.

Addison didn’t scream. She went completely silent. Her entire body locked rigid, every muscle from her jaw to her calves going taut as a bowstring. Her hands fisted in the sheets hard enough that her knuckles went white and the veins stood out across the backs of her hands.

Her mouth opened wide but nothing came out, just the shape of a sound too intense to actually become a sound, her body channeling everything inward instead of outward.

I drank from her breast and stroked inside her and spanked her ass once more with my free hand, all three points of contact converging into a single moment that Euphoric Feedback amplified to level eight.

Addison came apart.

Not quietly. Not gracefully. The silence tore open into a scream so loud I half expected someone to bang on the Sanctum’s outer walls, a raw howl that carried every profanity she’d ever learned and several I was reasonably certain she made up in the moment.

Her body clamped down on my fingers with bruising force, inner muscles working in pulses that squeezed my hand the same way her breast was emptying into my mouth, and the climax kept going. It refused to stop.

Five seconds became ten became fifteen, her body riding through convulsions that came in overlapping waves instead of anything resembling a normal peak and descent.

Milk erupted from both nipples in high pressure jets that hit the sheets and my jaw and her own stomach in warm splashes that kept coming. Her knees buckled. She went down face-first into the mattress with my hand still trapped between her thighs and my mouth still sealed around her areola, and I stayed with her through the tremors while she shook and swore and made sounds that were half sobs, half laughter.

The candlelight threw wild shadows across her tattoos. Black hair spread across the ruined sheets in tangles. Her skin glistened with sweat and milk and the evidence of total surrender.

\[You drink a mouthful of milk from a Silver-tier target. As a result, you get 50 points!\]

"Two," I said against her skin.

She grabbed the back of my head without lifting her face from the pillow and held me against her breast like a woman in the ocean clinging to driftwood.

"Don’t you fucking count at me right now." Her voice was destroyed. "I will kill you. I will literally manifest a scythe in this sex dimension and cut your stupid handsome head off if you count at me like I’m one of your little point targets."

"You are one of my point targets. That’s kind of the whole deal."

"Fuck you."

"Working on it."

She laughed. The sound came out wet and unsteady and broke halfway through into something closer to a sob, and she rolled over beneath me so she was on her back again with my hand pinned between her thighs and milk still leaking from both breasts in slow trickles that pooled in her collarbones and ran down the sides of her neck into her hair.

Her face was a disaster. Mascara everywhere. Black lipstick smeared from her mouth to her jaw. Eyeliner running. The violet contacts slightly displaced so I could see the edge of brown underneath. Sweat had plastered her hair to her forehead and the purple highlights stuck to her cheeks. Tear tracks cut channels through whatever remained of her foundation.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Not because of the sex or the milk or the System buzzing in my peripheral vision about points and extraction values. Because this was the real Addison. The one who read shojo manga under her covers and slept with a stuffed bat named Vlad and dreamed about someone pinning her against a wall and telling her she was beautiful while covered in blood.

"You’re looking at me again," she said quietly. No aggression. No challenge. Just the observation of someone who has been looked at by many people but seen by almost none.

"Yeah."

"Stop."

"No."

Her lips trembled. The bottom one specifically, the one I’d bitten and smeared and tasted, and the tremble lasted only a second before she caught it between her teeth and controlled it with the same iron discipline she brought to everything else.

"Why not."

"Because you’re beautiful."

She slammed a fist into my shoulder. Not gently. Real force that rocked me sideways and would leave a bruise by morning.

"Fuck you, don’t say that. That’s. You can’t just. Not when I look like this, not when I’m."

"Exactly when you look like this."

"I hate you."

"You don’t."

"I KNOW I DON’T, THAT’S THE PROBLEM."

She pulled me down and kissed me with milk on her lips and tears on her cheeks and the taste of her own surrender on her tongue.