Chapter 632 - 631- Got Hands of Virgin Aunt

Chapter 632: Chapter 631- Got Hands of Virgin Aunt

More came. Wrapping his legs. His torso. His arms — pinning them to his sides, immobilizing him. His mouth — the vines found his jaw, wrapped around it, forced it shut. His eyes — wide, red, furious — remained visible. The only parts of him not covered.

He looked like a mummy.

A Pharaoh’s mummy — wrapped in vines instead of linen, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose visible, his body immobilized, his strength useless. He tried to scream. The vines over his mouth held. The sound that escaped was a muffled, strangled, animal moan.

The thorn-vines found his balls.

The thickest, most hooked, most cruelly barbed vine wrapped around his sac — the heavy, dangling, vulnerable flesh that even a barbarian could not protect when his hands were bound. The thorns dug in. The vine squeezed.

His eyes went red.

Not red with anger. Red with pain. The deep, burning, all-consuming, world-ending red of a male whose testicles had been seized by thorns and squeezed. He could not scream. Could not howl. Could not do anything but stand there, wrapped in vines, with his eyes turning the color of blood.

The cloaked woman ran to him.

"Oppa! Oppa, are you all right?" She reached him — her small, thick body pressing against his vine-wrapped form, her hands finding his face, touching the only visible skin. "Leave Oppa!! Leave him!"

She turned.

She fell to her knees. Before Evriana. Kowtowed — the deep, forehead-to-the-ground, full-prostration bow of a woman who was begging for someone else’s life.

"Please," she said. "Please, I beg you. Please leave him. Please, please, please—"

Evriana stared.

’What?’

She was confused. Genuinely, completely, thoroughly confused. She had been about to die. Her sword was broken. Her ribs were screaming. And then — vines. From nowhere. From the ground. From — from what? She had not cast a spell. She did not have earth magic. She did not have vine magic. She did not have any magic that could produce thorn-covered vines from the soil.

So where had they come from?

A hand landed on her shoulder.

Warm. Large. The particular, heavy, grounding weight of a man’s hand on her body — the hand that she recognized before she turned. Before she saw. Before her brain processed the information, her body knew.

She turned.

He stood there.

Raven hair. Dark, falling across his forehead, damp with the sweat of battle and the mist of the rain that was beginning to fall. Violet eyes — the deep, luminous, amethyst glow that she had been seeing in her dreams and her memories and her dark, private, unexamined thoughts for twenty years.

He looked down at her.

And smiled.

Not the devil’s smile. Not the casual, dismissive, I-don’t-care smile. A real smile. Small. Warm. The kind of smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened his jaw and made him look — for just a moment — like the seven-year-old boy who had said ’one day I will marry you, Aunty.’

Rain began to fall.

Soft. Gentle. The first drops landing on her face, mixing with the tears she had not realized she was crying. The water ran down her cheeks, cold and clean, washing away the dirt and the blood and the fear.

"You saved me," she whispered.

The words came out before she could stop them. Small. Broken. The voice of a woman who had been about to die and had been saved and was now looking at her savior with the full, unfiltered, defenseless gratitude of someone whose walls had been knocked down.

She hugged him.

Her arms went around his chest. Her face pressed into his neck. Her body — the full, thick, bull-kin frame that was heavier and broader than his — pressed against him, the armor between them clanking, the cold metal warming where their bodies met.

He was surprised.

She felt it. The slight tension in his body — the momentary stiffness of a man who had not expected to be hugged. It lasted half a second. Then his hand found her back.

It rested there. Warm. Steady.

Then it moved.

Down.

Past her back. Past the armor plates at her waist. Past the belt. To the curve below — the full, thick, heavy curve of her ass, straining against the fabric of her trousers, the flesh soft and dense beneath his palm.

He groped.

His fingers sank in. The flesh yielded — the particular, deep, compressing softness of a bull-kin woman’s ass, the muscle underneath giving way to the fat on top, the whole mass shifting under his grip.

Evriana flinched.

Her body stiffened against him. Her breath caught. The hand on her ass — the warm, large, kneading hand of a man who was squeezing her buttock the way he had squeezed Dara’s and Berenga’s — sent a shock through her system that was not pain and was not pleasure and was not fear but was all three mixed together into something she had no name for.

She trembled in his arms.

Her face still buried in his neck. Her tears still falling. Her body still pressed against his. And his hand — his hand was on her ass, and he was squeezing, and she was letting him, because he had saved her life and because she wanted him to and because the word ’aunt’ no longer meant anything at all.

"Aren’t you being too hard on yourself, Aunt?" he said.

His voice was warm. Close. Whispered against her ear, the breath hot, the words intimate.

"At this age, you should care more about your body."

His hand moved. Up and down. Massaging the flesh, the thumb pressing into the cleft, finding the gap between her cheeks through the fabric.

"Are you married?"

The question landed.

She flinched again. The word ’married’ — asked while his hand was on her ass, while her body was pressed against his, while the rain fell and the vines held the barbarian and the cloaked woman kowtowed — was so absurd, so incongruous, so utterly inappropriate that she almost laughed.

Her dress was damp. The rain was soaking through the fabric — the thin, military-grade, not-designed-for-rain material clinging to her body, revealing the outline of her figure. Her ass — the full, thick curve of it — was visible through the wet fabric. The cleft between her cheeks. The puffy, swollen outline of her pussy, pressed against the wet cloth, the dark hair beneath visible as a shadow.

She was becoming damp.

Not just from the rain. The arousal — the particular, hot, insistent, betraying wetness that she had experienced behind the tree — was returning. Her body was responding to his hand, to his proximity, to the warmth of his chest and the hardness of his cock that she could feel through his pants, pressing against her belly.

She gasped.

"No," she said. "I am not married."

The words were muffled. Spoken into his neck. The confession of a thirty-nine-year-old virgin princess who was answering a question about her marital status while being groped by her nephew in the rain.

He kissed her forehead.

The gentle, soft, lips-on-skin contact that was not sexual and was not familial and was something in between — the particular, devastating, category-defying gesture that she had no framework for.

"So you must be a virgin too?" he said.

She trembled.

The word ’virgin’ — spoken aloud, in the rain, by a man whose hand was on her ass — hit her like the horn had hit the battlefield. Deep. Resonant. Shaking something loose inside her that she had been holding in place for thirty-nine years.

"Yes," she whispered.

He chuckled.

The low, warm, private sound that she felt in his chest.

"Celestia was too," he said. "She was really tight when I fucked her."