Novel Full Chapter 1797: No Surprise Boner
Chapter 1797: No Surprise Boner
Villain Ch 1797. No Surprise Boner
Allen pulled the VR headset off with a soft hiss of escaping air.
The immersive world vanished.
So did the bed. The girls. The shadows. The laughter. The sound of moaning and kissing and sheets rustling.
Back to reality.
His room was quiet, dimly lit by the orange hue of the evening sun bleeding through the blinds. The air conditioning hummed faintly. The chair creaked as he slumped back in it, breathing out slow, like his body just remembered it was human again. His heart? Still thundering in his chest like he’d sprinted a mile uphill with seven girls chasing him for round two.
Because yeah—he’d just had sex in the game.
With all of them.
Real enough that when Jane bit his shoulder, he still felt it like a ghost sting. Real enough that Shea’s moans still echoed in the back of his mind like she was whispering against his neck. Real enough that if he hadn’t paced himself like a damn war general in a lust battlefield, he’d still be in that bed getting his soul milked.
Allen exhaled again, slower.
“…I need to wash my face.”
He pushed himself up, legs mildly shaky—not from fatigue, just… leftover tension. Thank god he wasn’t hard anymore. He glanced down, just to be sure. Confirmed. No surprise boner.
Small victories.
He grabbed the small towel from his desk, padded toward the bathroom, and flicked the cold water on. It ran over his fingers first—icy, perfect—and then he leaned in and splashed his face.
Over and over.
Until the heat on his cheeks and the phantom sweat on his neck finally eased.
He reached for the towel and caught his reflection in the mirror.
Wet face. Flushed cheeks. Hair messy from the headset. And that stupid little smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips.
Yeah. He looked like a guy who just got wrecked and liked it.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. “No wonder Kafra watched.”
His mind immediately conjured her face. That prim-and-proper admin uniform. The headset. The flicker of panic when she realized she could watch… and didn’t stop. He had pushed her too far this time.
But she hadn’t popped in.
No scolding. No sarcastic system messages. No sudden appearance with her arms crossed and that “I’m not jealous I’m just doing my job” glare.
Nothing.
“I thought she’d say something,” Allen murmured, patting his face dry. “Or maybe… smack me with a virtual clipboard.”
But Kafra stayed gone.
Which meant one of two things.
Either she was fuming in silence.
Or… she was embarrassed. So embarrassed she needed time to cool down.
Allen tilted his head.
“Yeah,” he muttered with a sly grin. “I should probably let her breathe.”
Because deep down, he knew. That woman might be a system admin with override access and a kill switch built into her keyboard, but she was still human. And Allen had paraded a full seven-course erotic banquet in front of her like a smug bastard waving dessert forks.
He tossed the towel on the sink edge and stepped out of the bathroom.
His stomach growled.
He froze.
“Shit.”
He looked at the clock.
18:12 PM.
He cringed.
“Oh god—I skipped lunch?”
He could already hear Chef Michael’s soul screaming in the distance.
Allen rubbed his stomach. It wasn’t painfully hungry, but the grumble was firm. Sharp enough that if he waited ’til dinner, he’d either pass out or devour everything on the table like a beast fresh out of a dungeon.
“Maybe a snack,” he mumbled. “Something light.”
Stretching his arms over his head, he padded down the stairs toward the kitchen.
The mansion was quiet—too quiet, like the air itself was judging him.
He ignored it.
The tile cooled his bare feet, the scent of polished wood and faint citrus cleaner lingering in the hallways.
Allen pushed open the double doors to the kitchen.
The fridge door light blinked to life.
He scanned the inside.
Nothing too heavy. Nothing with carbs. Just something cold.
Then he spotted it.
A bowl of grapes. Chilled. Purple, plump, and glistening with dew.
“Perfect.”
He grabbed it and closed the fridge.
And immediately winced.
Chef Michael was right there.
Like a ghost. No footsteps. No warning. Just standing near the counter, arms folded, white chef coat pristine and immaculate, dark eyes staring at Allen like he’d committed an unforgivable culinary war crime.
“…Oh,” Allen said.
Chef Michael’s voice was flat. “Are you dropping another dessert from that viral cake shop again, sir?”
He said the words “viral cake shop” like they were a racial slur.
Allen instinctively lifted the bowl. “No, no. I’m just taking grapes.”
Michael stared at the grapes.
Then back at him.
Then back at the grapes.
“So,” he said with terrifying calm, “you’re saving your stomach… for grapes.”
Allen’s grip tightened on the bowl.
“You didn’t touch your lunch,” Michael continued, voice still neutral. Which made it worse. “A full-course lunch. Handcrafted. Plated. Balanced. Dusted with imported spices from two continents.”
Allen cleared his throat. “Something happened in the game. I got distracted. Nothing to do with your food.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Really. Your food is perfect.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Perfect?”
Allen nodded. “Divine. Life-changing. God-tier.”
Michael took a slow breath through his nose. His aura—yes, Allen could feel it—shifted from neutral to ominous, like a slow-boiling volcano.
“I’ll make you an extra portion tonight,” he said.
Allen laughed awkwardly. “That’s… that’s great. Can’t wait.”
“Dinner will be ready at seven.”
“I’ll be there.”
“On time.”
“Sharp as a blade.”
Michael turned slowly and walked out like a man preparing a very special kind of vengeance soufflé.
Allen slumped into one of the high stools, popping a grape into his mouth.
It was cold. Sweet. Refreshing.
And still not worth the fury of a disappointed chef.
He sighed.
“…I should send him a gift basket or something.”
He took another grape and leaned back, the cool fruit helping dull the post-game heat still coiling in his body.
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