Firelight painted her exposed skin gold, turning her into a living statue of consecrated flesh.
She looked at Celeste, then at the throbbing outline beneath my trousers her friend was inhaling, understanding dawning in her eyes – the scent, the worship, the power she was about to share.
Without prompting, she mirrored Celeste's earlier gesture. Her hand, cool and slender, reached out. Not tentative, but possessive. Her fingers traced the heavy ridge defined by the wool, exploring its length, its heat, its impossible girth with the analytical focus of a scholar studying a divine artifact.
She leaned in, her straight aristocratic nose inches from the fabric, and inhaled. Deeply.
The sound she made wasn't a sigh. It was a low, guttural moan of feral recognition.
"Mmmmmph." Her eyes slid closed, savoring the raw, masculine musk that mingled with Celeste's lingering breath against the cloth.
