Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1226: Chapter 1226 Dazzle

“Please—please—I can’t anymore—”

“You can,” Ross murmured, softer this time. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you let go.”

He pulled out only long enough to flip Jenny onto her back again, hook her legs over his shoulders—deepest angle yet—and fucked her through the overstimulation until her voice went hoarse and her thighs quaked uncontrollably.

She came so hard she squirted, soaking his stomach, the sheets, his thighs.

He groaned at the sight, the feel, the sound of her broken, gasping sobs.

Finally—mercifully—he let himself chase it too.

He buried himself to the root one last time, hips stuttering, and spilled inside her with a low, guttural sound that rattled his chest.

They collapsed in a sweaty, trembling heap.

The room smelled of sex and salt and them. The sheets were ruined.

The book had fallen to the floor sometime during the wall phase.

Dawn was bleeding pale gold through the half-open blinds.

Jenny’s chest heaved. She turned her face into his neck, voice wrecked.

“…You really didn’t stop.”

Ross pressed a slow, exhausted kiss to her temple.

“Couldn’t,” he rasped. “Not when you kept saying yes.”

She laughed—weak, breathless, perfect—and curled tighter against him.

They didn’t move again until the sun was fully up and the room smelled faintly of coffee drifting from somewhere downstairs.

***

“Hmmmm…” Jenny surfaced slowly from sleep, the kind of slow that happens when your body still remembers every place another body touched it the night before.

Sunlight slanted through the half-open blinds in thin gold bars across the rumpled sheets.

She blinked once, twice, then registered the quiet clink of dishes and the rich, dark smell of coffee curling through the air.

Ross.

He was already moving around the tiny kitchen like he belonged there—like he’d been waking up in this apartment for years instead of just the second morning in a row.

Scrambled eggs flecked with chives, crispy bacon still popping faintly, a bowl of sliced strawberries and kiwi glistening with juice, thick sourdough toast with butter melting into the craters, a small pitcher of orange juice, two mugs steaming, and—because apparently Ross believed in excess—a little stack of blueberry pancakes dusted with powdered sugar.

She propped herself up on one elbow, sheet slipping to her waist, and let out a soft, surprised laugh.

“Oh my god… I’m actually going to get spoiled rotten, aren’t I?”

Ross turned at the sound of her voice.

He was barefoot, wearing only yesterday’s dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep and her fingers.

The sight of him—casual, domestic, and somehow still radiating that same quiet heat from last night—made something warm and liquid slide through her chest.

He grinned, unrepentant. “That’s the plan. You complaining already?”

She sat up fully, tugging the sheet around herself out of old habit even though there was no one here to see but him.

“Not complaining. Just… observing.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I’ve been warned about guys like you. Big romantic gestures the first couple days, then poof—gone. Replaced by takeout containers and ‘I’m too tired’ excuses.”

She kept her tone light, teasing, but the words carried the faint echo of conversations with friends over too much wine.

They’d all nodded sagely: Men change after they sleep with you. They get comfortable. They stop trying.*m

Jenny had only ever had one husband to measure against.

The fear that Ross might not—that last night had been the peak and everything after would be downhill—was small, but it was there.

Ross must have caught the flicker in her expression, because he set the spatula down, crossed the room in three easy strides, and sank onto the edge of the mattress beside her.

Close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his skin.

“Hey,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek with his thumb. “I’m not them. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She searched his face for a second, looking for the tell—the shift, the polite retreat.

All she found was steady hazel eyes and the faintest upward curve of his mouth, like he already knew exactly what she was afraid of and was choosing to stay anyway.

“Promise?” she asked, half-joking, half not.

“Promise,” he answered without hesitation. Then the corner of his mouth kicked higher.

“Expect a lot more of this. Breakfasts that take too long to make. Coffee exactly how you like it even though you pretend you’re not picky. Random texts in the middle of the day asking if you’ve eaten. Shoulder rubs when you’ve been hunched over your laptop too long. And—” he leaned in, voice dropping to that gravelly register that made her thighs press together under the sheet “—a very generous, very regular supply of me fucking you until you forget how to form sentences. Morning, noon, night, whenever the mood strikes. Deal?”

Jenny’s laugh burst out before she could stop it, bright and startled and real. “You’re absurd.”

“Absurdly committed,” he corrected, stealing a quick, open-mouthed kiss that tasted like coffee and orange juice and him.

She shoved at his shoulder playfully. “Get off the bed before you ruin the surprise with your giant paws all over the food.”

He stood, mock-offended, hands raised in surrender. “Fine. Starve, then. See if I care.”

She didn’t starve.

They ate sitting cross-legged on the bed because neither of them wanted to leave it yet.

Ross balanced a plate on his knee and fed her a strawberry, laughing when juice ran down her chin.

She retaliated by smearing a fingertip of whipped cream on the end of his nose.

He caught her wrist before she could pull away, sucked the cream off her finger with exaggerated slowness, eyes locked on hers until her breath hitched.

They talked about stupid things—her terrible taste in old reality TV series, etc.

Every so often one of them would go quiet, just looking, like they were still trying to believe this was real.

At one point Jenny leaned back against the headboard, plate empty, cradling her mug in both hands.