The ground beneath Sol's bare feet was still slick with the mess of their fifth or sixth round… he honestly stopped counting somewhere around the fourth time she flipped him over and rode him like a captured stallion.
Veylara was still trembling against him, still locked around his waist, still soft and heavy in the aftermath. He allowed himself the dangerous hope that even a Layer 4 Warchief had limits.
His poor cock, which had already been pressed into heroic service far beyond what any reasonable man could expect, twitched once in exhausted protest at the mere idea of another round.
He had genuinely convinced himself that the honor of men across the entire cosmos was safe.
He had buried himself deep, pumped every last drop of his remaining juice into her, and left her trembling against the bark of the willow tree.
