"Remember that day in the castle? The way the world faded..."
Their banter danced on the edge—flirtatious barbs laced with heat, her hand grazing his thigh in a bold claim.
Yet Aragon, ever the stoic, parried with polite deflections, his smile enigmatic.
As the wine deepened inhibitions, the courtyard's veneer of civility cracked, giving way to primal urges akin to the orgiastic revels.
The dancers' routines grew bolder, bodies pressing against guests in invitations.
Nilrake was just drinking by himself; he was not touching even one woman.
Fredin, pragmatic to the core, accepted another's attentions; she straddled his massive form, her movements deliberate, drawing guttural grunts from him as he gripped her waist, thrusting upward with the force of a battering ram.
