"God fucking dammit."
Arkai exhaled the profanity into the cold winter air, the words crystallizing into a small cloud of frustration and arousal that dissipated almost instantly.
The merchant at the far end of the square glanced up from his cart, mildly confused. He squinted at the lone werewolf standing by the frozen fountain, a tall, dark-haired figure in fine clothes, apparently cursing at the empty air, then shrugged and returned to folding his wares. Nobles were strange… as known.
Then again—SLURP!
The hair on Arkai's nape stood up straight.
[Cecilia.] Oathran suddenly said. [Tell him what I am doing to you.]
Gods, she did not have to tell him. Arkai knew through the shared sense exactly how his elder brother ate their wife out.
The technique was burned into his memory from shared experience, from the times he had watched Oathran settle between Cecilia's thighs, which was more often than the Dragon's own meals.
