QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 179: Distracted

Chapter 179: Distracted

Chapter 179 – Estela POV

The sky is the color of champagne, tinged with lazy golds and faint blush pinks as the sun starts to rise over the horizon. I watch it from the balcony of our private villa—glass walls, sleek cream furniture, a private pool below, and the sound of the sea lapping somewhere in the distance. This resort is the kind of place that makes you forget you’re still on Earth and not a beautiful fairytale.

I sip from a flute of fresh pineapple juice, toes curled against the warm tiles. Below me, the water glitters like liquid topaz. The wind is soft and salted, carrying the scent of hibiscus and expensive sunscreen. Every detail here has been curated to perfection. Luxury, indulgence, peace.

But Daphne doesn’t look at any of it.

She sits on the edge of the oversized bed behind me, a tiny silken navy robe thrown haphazardly over her shoulders. Her legs are bare—long and golden from the sun, marked with faint scars that make her look even more dangerous and divine.

But instead of lounging like she owns the world (as she usually does), she’s hunched forward slightly, phone clutched in her hand, thumb tapping rhythmically against the screen.

She hasn’t blinked in over a minute.

I watch her.

She’s pretending to be calm, composed. But I can feel her nerves, see the way her foot taps against the marble floor like a countdown.

She’s worried.

About Raffaele.

She’s trying to act normal, but I can feel it. Every movement, every twitch of her fingers, every little sigh that escapes her lips when she thinks I’m not looking.

I pad across the room, barefoot and barely dressed in a matching robe, and crawl onto the bed behind her. She doesn’t even flinch. I climb into her lap without asking, settling myself across her thighs like I belong there—and I do.

Her arms wrap around my waist automatically. She exhales, and some of the tightness in her chest loosens. I wrap my arms around her neck and nuzzle into her shoulder, pressing a kiss there.

"He’ll be fine," I murmur, running my fingers gently through her hair, trying to ground her.

"I know," she says, but the way she clutches me tighter gives her away.

She’s not just anxious.

She’s spiraling.

Her heartbeat is too fast, pounding against my chest where our bodies meet. Not panic, exactly—Daphne doesn’t panic. But it’s the steady hum of someone who’s running every possible scenario, every betrayal, every outcome.

"You’ve done everything you could," I whisper, threading my fingers deeper into her hair, massaging gently. "Now it’s up to him."

Her jaw tightens against my palm.

She hates that. The letting go. The powerlessness.

Daphne doesn’t do well without control—It’s killing her.

I let my hands wander lower, brushing along her bare thighs, then slipping underneath the hem of her robe. Her skin is warm and soft, twitching slightly under my touch.

She hasn’t even noticed.

That’s when I realize just how far gone she is.

I lean back and look at her properly. Her gaze flickers down to my chest—finally—but it’s distracted. Unfocused.

God, that won’t do.

Daphne Castellano not noticing my naked body?

We’ve officially reached Defcon 1.

So I take her phone and gently pry it out of her hand.

She blinks, looking up at me in confusion.

"I have plans to distract you." I say, quirking a brow.

That breaks through.

Her eyes widen—then immediately rake down my body.

Finally.

There she is.

Her pupils dilate, and her lips part just slightly. I swear I can see her shift from strategist to lover in real time.

Now her eyes are on me.

Focused.

Hungry.

I see it shift in her gaze—that tension breaking just a little.

She leans in and kisses me. A deep, grounding kiss. I return it, pressing into her lips, sliding my hands around the nape of her neck, anchoring her.

A twitch at the corner of her mouth. It’s not a smile—but it’s the beginning of one.

She kisses me harder.

I shift, straddling her more fully, the silk of her robe parting as I press against her. Her thighs are firm beneath me. I trail my fingers across her collarbone, then lower—two buttons undone, then three. Her chest rises as I slide the robe off her shoulders completely.

She’s stunning.

I kiss her again.

Then I slide off her lap and sink to my knees between her thighs.

She blinks down at me.

"Estela—"

She raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t stop me.

Her legs part instinctively. She leans back, bracing herself on her hands, and I watch her exhale. I kiss the inside of her knee, then the soft skin higher up, trailing my mouth along her thighs.

"Hold my hair for me," I whisper.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers gather my curls into a loose fist, lifting them away from my face. It’s such a simple gesture—tender and commanding all at once—and so Daphne.

Even undone, robe hanging open, thighs spread before me in the soft light of our villa, she’s still in control of something.

Me.

Daphne is a giver. Always has been. She gives like it’s the only language she’s ever known. Protection. Pleasure. Control. In the beginning, I didn’t understand it. I worried. Wondered if she’d ever let me take the lead. If it was just her way of keeping distance—of never needing anything back.

But I’ve learned her rhythms since then.

I know what she likes. What she doesn’t. How far she’ll let herself go before pulling back. She doesn’t enjoy being touched inside—not even fingers. That kind of invasion turns her off instantly, learnt my lesson there.

The toys, the teasing, the teasing games, they’re all for me. She gets off on watching me come undone, on pulling me apart piece by piece.

And most nights, that’s enough for her.

But sometimes, on rare nights like this, she lets me give something back.

And I love it.

I really, really do.

My hands slide up her thighs, slow and reverent. Her skin is warm and flushed, muscles twitching under my fingertips. I kiss the inside of her knee, then higher, trailing a slow, open-mouthed path upward. The scent of her—salt and sweat and something uniquely Daphne—hits me before anything else.

She exhales sharply when I part her with my tongue.

I go slow at first. Long, flat licks that make her hips rise off the bed. Her grip in my hair tightens, and I hum into her, sending vibrations through her core. Her thighs tighten around my shoulders, but I don’t pull back.

I want her to feel everything.

She tries to muffle her sounds, biting down on her bottom lip, but a soft moan escapes anyway. I glance up—her head is thrown back against the headboard, lashes fluttering, mouth parted.

Her control is slipping.

And God, it’s beautiful.

I focus on her clit, slow circles with my tongue, alternating pressure. She gasps, then whines—low and needy—and her fingers pull tighter, grounding herself on me.

Her hips jerk again, and I know she’s close. Her legs are trembling now, small quivers rolling through her muscles like aftershocks.

She’s trying to draw it out, I can tell—Daphne always does. Always wants to control it.

But this time, I don’t let her.

I wrap my arms around her thighs and hold her down, suck hard once—just once—and she breaks.

A choked cry, her body arching, thighs clenching, her orgasm hitting like a wave.

I don’t stop until I feel her fully relax.

Then I kiss my way up her body, leaving a trail of soft pecks along her stomach, her ribs, her collarbone, until I settle back in her lap.

She pulls me in, burying her face in my neck.

"I hate how good you are at that," she murmurs, voice hoarse.

Successfully distracted.