Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 221:Virgin blood is always Red.

Lucifer walked to the door, his steps deliberate, almost ceremonial, the soles of his boots whispering against the cold marble like a secret being dragged across the floor.

She watched him, heart stuttering in her chest, and asked again, softer this time, "What ...What are you doing?"

He didn’t answer. The iron lock clicked shut with a sound too final, too loud in the hush of the ritual chamber. Only then did he turn.

The dying light of the stained-glass sun poured through the high windows, bleeding gold and crimson across her half-naked body where she knelt on the sacred circle.

The white gown had slipped from one shoulder, clinging only by prayer and desperation now. His gaze moved over her slowly, possessively, as though he were memorizing the way the light kissed the swell of her young breasts, the fragile line of her collarbone, the white spill of her hair over trembling shoulders.

Her yellow eyes—too wide, too bright—met his, and something inside her chest cracked open like thin ice.

He reached for the thin silver chain at his throat. The one that had always smelled faintly of incense and lies. His fingers closed around the cross, and the moment he lifted it away the air in the room changed.

It slammed into her.

That aura.

She had felt it once before, months ago, at the Duke’s banquet. A man with white hair and golden eyes had passed so close she had nearly dropped her wine.

The scent—frost and myrrh and something darker, something that made her knees weak—had haunted her dreams ever since. She had convinced herself it was imagination. A trick of candlelight.

But the man who called himself the Prophet now carried the exact same scent. The exact same weight in the air.

Her lips parted. "Who ...are you?"

His smile was slow, cruel, tender. The glamour melted from his hair like ink washed away by holy water; black turned snow-white in a heartbeat. His eyes ignited into molten gold.

His palm rose to her cheek, cool as moonlight. She flinched, then didn’t. Couldn’t.

"...Aiden ..the new anointed knight?" The name left her throat like a prayer and a curse at once.

"Yes," he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "The one and only."

Memory flooded her without mercy: the banquet, the way every woman in the hall had turned toward him like flowers to the sun. How she had hated them for it.

How she had hated herself for wanting to be seen by those eyes. She had been nobody then. A common-born girl with strange eyes and stranger dreams. And he—he had looked straight through her, or so she’d thought.

Now he looked at nothing else.

His hand settled over the thin fabric covering her heart. "Give yourself to me, Bony." he said, voice low, inevitable. "Be mine. Forever."

The words should have sounded like madness. She was the Saintess now. Chosen. Pure. The vessel of the God’s light. This was blasphemy carved in flesh.

But his gaze was a tide, and she was already drowning.

She thought: I should scream. I should call the guards. I should remember the prophecy that said the Saintess must remain untouched until the final battle.

She thought: I have never been touched by anyone. Not truly.

She thought: He is ruin and I have always been drawn to breaking.

Before reason could claw its way back up her throat, he surged forward and kissed her.

His mouth was colder than she expected, and hotter. He tasted like winter storms and forbidden altars.

His tongue slid against hers—slow, claiming—and the small helpless sound she made embarrassed her only until his hand tightened in her hair and the embarrassment burned away.

She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t.

His palm slid down the front of her gown, over the frantic drum of her heart, lower, until he cupped her breast through the cloth. The shock of it—his cold skin, the sudden pressure—tore a moan from her lips that echoed off the vaulted ceiling like blasphemy.

"Ah—"

He swallowed the sound, kissing her harder, while his other hand gathered the heavy skirts of her gown, dragging them up inch by torturous inch. Cool air kissed her bare thighs. She tried to close them; he stepped between them instead, unhurried, inevitable.

"No," she whispered against his mouth, but her hips tilted toward him as if they belonged to someone else. "We can’t—"

His smile curved against her lips. "We already are."

Fingers brushed the edge of her smallclothes. She was trembling so violently the sacred symbols beneath her knees blurred. When he hooked his fingers in the delicate fabric and pulled, the wet sound it made as it peeled away from her skin made her want to die of shame.

And want more.

He lowered her slowly, until her back met the ritual ground—cold stone, etched with centuries of purity rites now defiled by her willing spine. The painted eyes of the Goddess stared down from the ceiling, and she felt them like brands.

Aiden knelt between her thighs. The prophet’s robe parted, and there it was—the hard, sinful length of him straining against holiness. Bigger than she had imagined in her most secret, guilty dreams. Terrifying. Beautiful.

"Will it ...hurt?" she asked, voice cracking into something small and young.

He leaned over her, white hair spilling like moonlight across her breasts. "Only at first." His knuckles brushed her cheek, tender and terrible. "Then you’ll feel heaven tear through you."

She believed him. God forgive her, she believed him.

He guided himself to her entrance. The blunt head nudged, parted, stretched. She felt herself yield by slow, impossible degrees—too much, too soon—and then the sharp bright pain as he pressed forward and her maidenhead gave way.

"Aaaaaahhhhhh!!"

She cried out. Blood welled warm between her thighs, soaking into the sacred runes, turning centuries of white marble red. Aiden stilled, buried only partway inside her, letting her adjust to the burn, the impossible fullness.

"Breathe, little saint," he whispered against her temple. "Breathe for me."

She did, shuddering, and he slid deeper—deeper—until he was seated to the hilt and her body fluttered wildly around the invasion. The pain ebbed into something darker, hungrier.

He kissed her again, slow and filthy, while her blood painted them both. "You’re mine now," he said against her swollen lips. "Not the God’s. Not the main character, Not the world’s. Mine."

She should have wept for her ruined future. For the prophecy shattered beneath her spine.

Instead her legs wrapped around his hips and she pulled him closer, deeper, chasing the promise he’d made her.

The ritual chamber smelled of incense and iron and sex. Somewhere high above, the stained-glass sun finally slipped below the horizon, and the first star of evening pricked the darkness like an accusing eye. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

She no longer cared who was watching.

Her last coherent thought, before pleasure took her under completely, was that the God had never once made her feel this alive.

And then even that thought dissolved, and there was only Aiden—moving inside her, claiming, ruining, saving—and the wet sounds of her surrender echoing beneath heaven’s cold, indifferent vault.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, a claiming. Aiden drew his hips back until only the thick head of him remained inside her, then sank forward again, burying himself to the root in one smooth, merciless glide. Her body arched off the stone, spine bowing like a drawn bowstring.

"Ahhh—!"

The cry tore from her throat, raw and broken, ricocheting off the vaulted ceiling and coming back to them twice as filthy.

Blood and slick coated the place where they joined, easing his way, painting his shaft crimson each time he withdrew.

He set a rhythm then: deep, punishing strokes that ended with the heavy slap of his hips against hers. Skin on skin, wet and sharp, the sound obscene in the sacred silence.

Each impact jolted through her, breasts bouncing, nipples dragging across the coarse weave of his robe until they ached.

"Listen," he growled against her ear, breath hot, voice ragged. "Listen to how greedily you take me. How greedily you want me.."

Another thrust—harder. The slap echoed louder, wetter. She whimpered, legs trembling around his waist.

"Aiden—please—"

"Please what, little saint?" He snapped his hips forward, grinding deep, rolling them in a slow, filthy circle that rubbed the head of his cock against something inside her that made white sparks burst behind her eyes. "Please stop? Or please ruin you faster?"

She couldn’t answer. Only sob, nails raking down the back of his neck, heels digging into the small of his back to drag him deeper. He laughed, low and dark, and gave her what she wouldn’t say.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

He fucked her like punishment and prayer at once.

The pace turned brutal. His hands slid beneath her hips, fingers bruising the soft flesh, lifting her into every thrust so the angle sharpened and he struck that devastating spot again and again and again. Her cries climbed higher, broken, desperate, until they no longer sounded human.

Slap—slap—slap—slap—

The rhythm was relentless, the marble beneath her back growing slick with sweat and blood and the flood of her arousal. Each time he bottomed out, her walls clenched around him like a fist, trying to keep him inside, terrified of the emptiness when he pulled back.

"Fuck," he hissed, golden eyes blazing down at where he disappeared into her body, over and over, her pink folds stretched obscenely around his girth. "Look at you. Bleeding for me. Sucking me in like you were born for this."

She was sobbing now, tears cutting silver tracks through the sweat on her temples. Pleasure coiled low in her belly, tighter, hotter, unbearable.

"Aiden—Aiden—I can’t—"

"You can," he snarled, shifting his grip to hook one of her knees over his elbow, spreading her wider, opening her completely. The new angle dragged a scream from her throat. "You will. Come on my cock, Saintess. Show your God how well you sin."

He slammed into her, once, twice, three times—hard, filthy, perfect—and the coil snapped.

Her climax hit like lightning striking a cathedral spire. She convulsed beneath him, back arching clear off the stone, a broken wail tearing free as her body clenched and pulsed around him in violent, milking waves.

Wetness gushed between them, soaking his thighs, the ritual circle, the ancient runes that had never borne witness to anything so profane.

Aiden groaned, long and guttural, hips stuttering as her orgasm dragged him over the edge. He buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a snarl, cock jerking hard inside her, flooding her with heat.

Pulse after pulse, thick and endless, until it leaked out around him, mixing with her release and the last of her virgin blood.

"Aaahh...ahhh...ahhhh...ohhh...ohhh god."

For a moment there was only the wet sound of their breathing, the drip of spent fluids onto sacred stone, the faint metallic scent of sex and desecration thick in the air.

He stayed inside her, unwilling to leave the clutch of her body, forehead pressed to hers. Their hearts hammered in tandem, two war drums refusing to quiet.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolled his hips once more—just enough to feel her shudder and whimper, oversensitive and ruined.

"Mine," he whispered against her swollen lips, tasting salt and surrender. "Every drop. Every scream. Every heartbeat. Mine."

She could only nod, trembling, legs still wrapped around him like chains she never wanted broken.

"Yes..yes..I’m yours only yours. ♥️.."