The bright, merciless glare of the chandelier overhead beat down on the ruined battlefield of the bed. The air in the room was suffocatingly dense, with the overpowering, lingering aroma of pheromones, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of raw sex.
Malcolm lay flat on his side, deliberately facing away from the man sharing his pillows. His long, muscular legs were trembling with a deep, systemic exhaustion, and his chest rose and fell in slow, ragged intervals. He stared blankly at the dark wood of the opposite wall, his amber eyes wide and unfocused as the haze of the S-tier heat finally began to recede, leaving a cold, devastating reality to slam into his conscious mind like a physical brick wall.
He had bottomed. He, the untouchable, proud King of Deviloy, had completely surrendered his body and let himself be thoroughly ravaged on all fours by another man.
