"Kurgh!" With a sudden crash, the window shattered—shards scattering like glass rain—as a powerful hand clamped around his neck, lifting him clean off the ground. The grip was vice-like, crushing and precise. He gasped, hands clawing at her arm, struggling to breathe.
"Cruxius!" Ytrisia's voice cut through the tension, sharp with alarm, as the moonlight illuminated the intruder from the side.
Cruxius squinted through the sting of glass dust in the air—and froze.
And then he saw her.
Goddamn.
A mature beauty.
Not some armored tank or tactical getup—she wore a short, tight skirt that barely covered her thick ass.
Black thigh-high boots hugged her long, meaty legs. Her top was practically painted on, cleavage front and center, bouncing with every breath. No padding, no shame.
Just tits out and proud—heavy, firm, practically spilling out with every subtle move. Her waist was tight, hips wide, body built like a wet dream on steroids.
