Transmigrated As An SSS Ranked MILF Overlord
Chapter 63: A Night In The Garden With...(3)(R18+)

Chapter 63: A Night In The Garden With...(3)(R18+)

Their lips devoured each other, slow at first, then hungry—starved.

Each kiss deeper than the last, wetter, hotter, their mouths moving like they were trying to drink the other in.

Her breath was warm against his, her taste sweet and dizzying. Karasini groaned into her mouth, his hands roaming with a mind of their own, gripping Tonya’s ass with a raw, unfiltered need.

She was soft—no, plush—and the curves of her body filled his hands like they were made for him.

He squeezed, fingers sinking deep into the velvet heft of her ass, feeling the give of her bare flesh under the sheer fabric of her nightdress.

She wasn’t wearing panties. Just that thin, almost useless cloth between her and his touch.

And then even that barrier slipped away as his hands found their way underneath, palms full of her bare skin. She was warm. So damn warm.

Tonya moaned softly against his lips, grinding her hips forward, her thighs pressing against his sides, her body guiding him without words.

Her lips broke from his only to drag along his jaw, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered his name like a secret she wasn’t supposed to say.

Steve’s head tilted back, eyes shut, his heart pounding like a drum inside his chest.

He wanted to say something, anything—but words were meaningless here. All that mattered was the heat of her body, the wet sound of their kisses, the weight of her ass in his hands, spilling through his fingers like sin made flesh.

She kissed him again—rougher this time—and he responded, matching her hunger.

Their bodies clung to one another, tongues tangling, hands roaming, the scent of the garden around them blooming with lust.

Then, finally, she pulled away—just slightly, just enough to breathe.

Her eyes darted around the garden.

"He didn’t hear." she whispered, lips brushing his as she spoke.

Before he could mutter his thoughts, she grabbed his hand and pulled him deeper into the garden, their footsteps silent on the grass, flowers brushing their legs like spectators to something forbidden.

The torches were behind them now, and ahead was nothing but shadow and wild, flowering silence.

They stopped in a dense patch of blooms—tall, fragrant, concealing. No one could see them here. It was perfect.

He barely had time to take in the scent of roses and honeysuckle before she spun back toward him.

Her eyes locked with his, blazing. Then she surged forward and kissed him again—fierce, claiming—her hands already sliding down his body, reaching for more.

He continued to kiss her, deeply, with a slow hunger that burned hotter by the second. His hands wandered once more, gliding down the smooth curve of her arms, savoring every inch of her skin. But just as his fingers neared her hips, Tonya pulled away—so abruptly that it left him breathless, stunned for a heartbeat.

Then, without a word, she dropped to her knees and, with a single fluid motion, slid his trousers down.

The fabric pooled at his ankles in silence. His cock sprang free, thick and rigid, a heavy throb pulsing through it as it stood in front of her—long, veined, and unyielding.

She paused.

Her gaze lingered on him, fixed on the sheer size and power of his length.

The weight of her stare, filled with something close to awe, made his cock twitch—just once, but hard enough to make her breath hitch.

For a moment, she simply stared, lips slightly parted as if remembering—no, feeling—what he’d done to her the last time.

The way he’d filled her. The way he’d broken her apart, only to piece her back together in the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Oh my..." she whispered, almost to herself.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his for the briefest second, then dropped again to the stiff length before her.

And then—with a movement as smooth as it was certain—she squatted low, positioning herself right in front of him.

Her breasts bounced with the motion, soft and heavy beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress. The sight alone made him groan low in his throat.

The fabric clung to her curves, teasing him with every breath she took. But not for long.

Her hands rose to the hem of her nightdress. Slowly—deliberately—she pulled it down over her chest.

The moment her dress slipped low enough, her breasts spilled free, bouncing out into the warm night air. Full. Heavy. Perfect.

Her nipples were already hard, flushed with arousal, begging to be touched, to be tasted.

Steve inhaled sharply. The sight hit him like a drug.

His cock pulsed harder, the thick veins standing out, throbbing in response to the vision before him.

She hadn’t even touched him yet, but the sheer erotic weight of her undressing—of the way she looked at him, proud and hungry—was enough to urge him to grab her right there.

She was a goddess in the garden.

As her breasts spilled free, her hand rose slowly, reverently, cupping one with a delicate squeeze.

The soft flesh filled her palm, warm and supple, and her fingers sank in just enough to make her gasp lightly.

Her eyes flickered upward, catching Steve’s gaze. He was smiling—slow and quiet, the kind of smile that smoldered.

She lifted that same hand to her lips and brought a finger to them, pressing it gently.

’Shhh.’

Her eyes glinted with mischief.

He didn’t speak. He only smiled back and raised a hand to her other breast.

He cupped it firmly, squeezing it with slow intention, feeling the weight and warmth of her body pulse beneath his fingers.

In his mind, a question stirred, ridiculous but unavoidable-

’ Her ass or her tits?’ He couldn’t tell which one felt better.

The memory of her ass in his palms, thick and lush, battled now with the softness of her breasts pressing against his hand.

’God, how am I supposed to choose?’

But then—her smile widened.

Her other hand reached forward, slow and deliberate.

And when she wrapped her fingers around his cock, it was with that same quiet hunger in her eyes, the same playful dominance.

Her grip was light at first, a teasing wrap that barely contained the heat of him.

She leaned forward just a little, lips brushing the base of his shaft, her eyes never leaving his, as if daring him to make a sound.

With a slow, deliberate motion, her hand began to glide along his shaft—stroking him in a smooth, rhythmic back-and-forth motion.

Each stroke was fluid, controlled. Her grip was gentle, not too tight, just enough for him to feel every inch of her palm as it slid over his throbbing length.

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