The air was a thick, humid soup of sandalwood, expensive gin, and the sharp, metallic tang of raw biological output.
Liam lay back against the emerald sheets, his chest a heaving landscape of exertion. He felt hollowed out, his nerves firing late, phantom signals of the pleasure that had just wrecked him.
Elena sat back on her heels.
She was a vision of high-tier predatory decadence.
A single, translucent thread of him glistened on the corner of her bottom lip, a trophy she didn't bother to wipe away.
Her hair was a wild, electrified halo, clinging to the sweat-slicked skin of her shoulders.
She didn't look tired.
She looked fueled.
Her massive breasts, freed from the earlier constraints of her poise, hung with a heavy, decadent weight.
They were magnificent, pale obstacles to his sanity, the aureolas dark and puckered from the chill of the room meeting the heat of her skin.
