Vincent isn't entirely sure of the why behind making it to her bedroom, but he isn't complaining.

It is an evening like any other – well, if one could call an evening with Ada such a thing. With an invitation in the form of a letter, he has whisked her away to a decently pleasant orchestral affair, which he finds bland and she finds lovely. Fortunately, it is easy to blame the blandness for how his gaze lingers upon her, because what else can he stare at during such an evening – the incorrect bowing of the concert master? It is such a vapid affair, all of it, and Vincent wishes he found Ada's expression to be just as vapid in the low light of the concert hall, the sun-gold halo of her hair around her face and her skin awash with a faint flush.

He hasn't as much as touched her more than a subtle graze of his hand against her arm, and she is already so… pleased. It brings his lips to downturn, just slightly, and Vincent looks away to make sure she didn't see the slip of irritation (even while he, miserably, thought to himself that he would be the same should Gilbert even begin to touch him).

The fairer sex will forever be a mystery to him.

When the concert is over, Ada makes quick work – no matter how hesitantly, how adorably shyly (no, not adorably, annoyingly) – of inviting him to her residence. Vincent inwardly groans, outwardly smiles as he agrees, all sweetness even when the promise of an evening being shown about her torture chamber far from appealed.

This is all for the sake of his plans, the Vessalius key, infiltrating what needed to be infiltrated – this girl's bed included. Such words are his mantra as she quietly leads the way through the halls of the manor, and to Vincent's near-palpable surprise, along a different path than she had previously. His head cocks to the side, quizzical, as Ada fumbles, briefly, with a key in order to open a large door that looked as if it might belong to a bedroom.

It is a bedroom.

Vincent quickly realizes that no evening with Ada Vessalius is like 'any other.'

"… Ada-sama – "

"Ah – a-anou – " The girl – woman? maybe Vincent has underestimated her abilities, yet again – turns, hands clutched at her ample bosom as she stares up at him, all wide, beguiling eyes – wide, beguiling eyes that are of her family's blood, of Jack's blood. Vincent feels himself shiver. "I was wondering… if you would keep me company this way, tonight."

She is blushing, and Vincent, for a moment, can only stare. He truly hasunderestimated this girl, hasn't he? After the last time she had led him home and merely talked his ear off for a good three hours, he was assuming this battle would be a hard-won one.

Instead, she has invited the devil to her bed herself.

Belatedly, Vincent realizes he has not responded yet, and jerks himself back to the present with a smile curving his lips. Where was his mind this evening? He can't seem to focus. "I would be honored to be the lady's… company for the evening."

Ada leads him into the room with a gloved hand wrapped within his, and Vincent allows her to pull him where she wishes him – not toward the bed, as it may have been, but to a lower chaise, printed with some creamy, flowery embellishment. At least, that is as well as he can make out in the dim light of the room as she drops herself down, and still flushed, pulls him down with her. He sees her lick her lips, anticipatory, and that is when he closes in – slides a hand along the inside of her thigh, over her skirts to begin with, and presses his mouth to the corner of hers before kissing her properly.

Her lips are soft and her mouth warm and moist, tasting of well-sugared tea and little else. With a little moan, she pushes herself up towards him, fumbling, nervous fingers reaching for his shoulders and finding a place to grasp there. For all of her nerves, Ada seems to know very well what she wants, and Vincent hides his frown into the kiss. Perhaps this delicate flower is not so innocent as he thinks – as Gil thinks, as anyone thinks.

For some reason, as troubling as the thought is, it only seems to make himself swell within the confines of his clothing. Vincent stifles a growl and the urge to throw her legs back and have his way with her right then and there. Where is such a thought coming from? When does he ever lose control in these situations? He huffs softly as he draws back from kissing her and looks at her – hair now a dishevled mess from where it tumbles over the side of the chaise, her legs sprawled beneath her skirts to either side of his hips, and chest heaving from the effort it takes to draw in a full breath with her undoubtedly still too tight corset.

Most of this can be remedied.

"Allow me," he murmurs into the side of her neck, placing an open-mouthed kiss there before his fingers begin to work on the high collar of her dress, the fastenings and buttons down her chest to follow. Ada's bosom heaves with a sigh of relief at the loosening of that much, and Vincent swallows thickly at the sight of her bare breasts, milky white and begging to be touched, squeezed, bitten, so plainly revealed before his gaze.

Any pleasure he derives from this, he reminds himself, is purely incidental.

His attention is quickly diverted, however, as his long-fingered hands deftly slide around her, hooking into the lacings of her corset to jerk the remaining tension free. She gasps and shudders, her thighs, soft and warm as melting honey, pressing against his hips. Vincent feels his own breath catch and he allows himself, to placate his thrumming pulse and the sweat gathering at his brow, to touch, no matter briefly – to skim his fingers over the pale skin of her waist and hips that he has revealed beneath the clinging remains of her dress. No matter how her waist is carved by years of corset-wearing, she is still soft – a fair amount of flesh clings to her bones, lending her to plush curves that he wants to properly dig his fingers into. Vincent has never fancied himself liking a form that isn't bony and thin and awkward, but this? This, for some reason, he also enjoys.

She moves, then, presumably to lurch up against him. Vincent shushes her with another kiss before he slides back, fingers tangled into her skirts next to shove them up and out of the way.

"V – Vincent-sama – "

"Let me," is his coo, as gentle and sweet as the sweep of his fingers along her trembling thighs. The skin there is so silken that it is all he can do not to flex his nails into it once he reaches flesh uncovered by her stockings.

He glances up to catch sight of her, and bites the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan. Ada is flushed red, her face turned partially to the side so that she can bury it into her own, mussed hair. Her hands are drawn up to her chest now, clenched into little fists as if she is kneading the palms of her own hands and with each shuddering breath, her lips part, her tongue flicks out, and oh, she's just a vision. She's enjoying this so very much and Vincent has to tear his gaze away to focus on the task at hand.

Even if he isn't looking at her face, the little "oh!" and its following moan, faintly surprised, all pleased, when he presses a soft kiss to the heat between her legs through her panties is enough to make him shudder all over again. Nuzzling her,tasting her through that thin fabric, he's unsurprised at how wet she already is, and so his fingers reach up, tangling into the flimsy silk to tug it down, bunching it around her supple thighs.

Vincent tastes her properly, then, his lips and tongue soft as they graze over her outer lips. She's shuddering, moaning, sinking her teeth into her knuckles when his tongue flicks over the sensitive nub. Slim fingers grip into her thighs – those perfectly creamy, moldable thighs – as he sucks and kisses at that reservoir of nerves, feeling her twitch and thrash beneath him, and nearly buck up against his mouth when his tongue thrusts inside of her, just slightly. Ada lets out a whine, shudders, and then Vincent feels her twinge and convulse around him.

Oh, how riled this girl must have been, to melt so quickly beneath his touch.

Not that he is in any better of a state as he pulls away and delicately wipes his mouth, his breath hitching. Ada is still blushing, though he is certain the flush is more from her slow-to-abate arousal than any embarrassment.

"You look… stunning like this, dearling," he breathes as he slides back up between her legs, a hand upon one of her knees as the other drags gloved fingertips over the curve of one breast. He makes sure his weight rests against her, just enough that she can felt he hardness of his erection searing through the confinements of fabric and begging for proper attention.

To her credit, the girl seems to get the hint, and rouses herself from her half-glazed, post-coital state. It isn't the reaction Vincent is expecting, however, and he can't bite back the frown that falls upon his lips as her hands lift to his chest, pushing him back rather than gathering him close.

"Vincent-sama… I can't."

He wants to hurt her.

In that moment, he nearly does. It would be so easy to grab the witch by her throat and snap it like a twig. Vincent even considers putting a bullet through her head before she amends the statement:

"A-at least… not like that – "

Oh. Well. As long as there is something, he supposes. He can understand a woman's desire to keep some semblance of virtue, no matter how silly the notion, and he hardly expected to completely defile her so soon. Vincent's head tilts as he watches her, breath escaping a touch too heavy as he tries to calm down. "Then what, Ada-sama, did you have in mind?"

It is she who lurches up to reach for him once more, catching him about the waist and easing him forward. "Up here," she whispers, and that doll-like voice of hers makes him shiver as he pliantly lends himself to her hold. She tugs him far enough forward that he is perched just below her bosom and he wonders, what, exactly she is –

Vincent's analyzing of the situation promptly comes to a halt as her fingers, so small and delicate, pry open the buckle of his belt and the fastenings of his pants. Her touch is a bit tremulous, but no less than eager as she pulls him free, and Vincent hears his breath escape as a hiss. Oh, what is she doing, other than intending to drive him mad.

"Just… just a bit further, Vincent-sama."

He obliges, scooting forward to lean over her chest, and is rewarded by the sudden craning of her head forward, the wet pressure of her lips wrapped around the head of his erection and then, the forward bob of her head entirely, pulling him as deep into her mouth as both the position and undoubtedly experience can manage. Vincent grimaces from the sheer satisfaction of it – dear god, her mouth is so warm and wet and when he glances down to catch a glimpse of her, he can't help but groan, his hips thrusting forward on their own accord.

From the little, muffled sounds Ada makes, she seems to like it, the harlot.

Swallowing thickly, he shifts back as Ada leans away once more, though her hand remains upon his length, guiding it between her breasts. She really is a harlot, isn't she? Some kind of expensive concubine, made just for him, judging by how well he seems to fit between he furrow of her breasts. Looking up at him, she is nothing but wide, inviting eyes, especially as she cups her breasts within her own hands, pushing them up to squeeze them around his cock.

Vincent's self control shatters.

Leaning forward, his hands brace to the arm of the chaise behind her head, giving him the leverage to thrust his hips forward. He's slick enough from her mouth that he slides easily enough against her skin, and that bit of friction just makes it sweeter – adds a tug of discomfort that makes him hiss and moan. Occasionally, Ada leans forward, tongue kittenesque, mouth pure sinful, wet heat against the head of his erection. She's perfect. This girl is perfect. It's too easy to imagine himself buried to the hilt inside of her, but instead this is somehow even better, even more of a defilement, even more depraved as he fucks the hollow she has made for him, squeezing and rubbing herself around him with every snap of his hips.

He comes undone with a breathy gasp. As he splatters over her chest, one of Vincent's hands lift, burying into the thick of her hair to jerk her head up, and he follows – finishing against her cheek as he slides against it and presses himself to it with a last, shallow jerk of his hips against the side of her face. Ada doesn't protest – if anything, she looks all the more aroused by it, and turns her head, flushing, to lick a stripe along the side of his cock.

This woman will be the end of him, he knows it.