Cruxius knelt near the edge of the mattress, chest heaving. His thick length was still wet, half-erect and glistening as a final, lazy drop of white spilled from the slit. Ytrisia lay sprawled flat, her exhausted body riding out soft aftershocks. Her arms rested limply above her head like a broken doll.
Cruxius leaned down, pressing a simple kiss to her forehead.
It wasn't lustful. It wasn't dominant.
It was just… calm. As if breaking a woman down to a trembling, leaking mess was merely his morning routine. As if her raw throat and twitching thighs were perfectly normal.
He stood, stretching his broad back and rolling his shoulders like a large cat waking from a nap. With casual precision, he grabbed his dark pants. He dressed in silence, lacking any urgency, exuding a predator's chilling detachment.
Ytrisia finally stirred.
Sluggish and drained.
