Kafka was still catching his breath, towering above the tangled mess of Seraphina and Lyra who had fallen asleep from the sheer exhaustion, their bodies wrapped around each other in a delirious, sticky embrace.
The bed itself looked as though it might finally collapse beneath the aftermath of his wild onslaught.
Not to mention, his cock—slick, still pulsing, demanding more—jutted out like a threat and a promise, almost daring anyone to challenge him next.
Kafka then looked up, the fire in his eyes far from dimmed, and the rest of his wives—Nina, Camila, Bella, Olivia, June, Abigaille—immediately took a synchronized step back, their faces a blend of awe, fear, and horror.
For a beat, nobody said a word, the only sound the faint drip, drip of excess seed pattering down onto the sheets.
Then Nina, always quick to throw her best friend under the bus, shot a glance at Camila and like a general hurling a soldier into the fray pushed her forward.
