"Get me pregnant," Crymsaria demanded.
The heavy silence that followed was broken only by Itharine's ragged breathing and Qliphoth's faint snoring. The scent of sex still hung in the air, now mixing with the intense, damp aroma emanating from the two women staring at him.
Vergil rose with the fluidity of a predator, his body still wet with Itharine's fluids. He didn't say a word. Words were unnecessary. The air was electrified by their promise, by the unspoken demand pulsing through the space between them.
He walked toward them, his steps firm against the black grass. His blue eyes traveled over their trembling bodies from head to toe, lingering on the glistening trails running down the inside of their thighs.
Crymsaria was the first to move.
With an abrupt gesture that looked more like breaking free from shackles, she grabbed the straps of her black dress and tore it downward.
