The sound of it — clean, full, her ass registering the impact with the honest, warm, involuntary clench of flesh that has been struck — carried into the garden and bounced off the stone wall and dispersed into the night.
Dara's hands gripped his shoulders tighter.
"The— the woman who—" Her voice, trying to organize itself around a situation in which her brain was attempting to retrieve information while her body was processing the ongoing arrival of his hand at her lower back and his cock pressing against the inside of her thigh.
"With the knife," Viktor said. Patient. "The kitchen woman. Tell me about her."
His fingers moved.
Finding the edge of her panty.
The thin, plain, practical cotton of inn-servant underwear — the working-woman's fabric, sensible and washable and very much in the way of where his fingers were going.
He did not remove it.
He pressed against it.
"Mnh~—"
