His mouth found her neck.
Low. Involuntary. The sound of a woman whose body had been through several shifts and was exhausted and sore and should have been incapable of arousal and whose body had just overruled every single one of those conditions because Dexmon Drakenfell's mouth was on her neck and her body's response to his mouth was constitutional and immune to circumstances.
His hand slid between her thighs.
She gasped. The contact was direct, purposeful, his fingers finding her with the precision of a man who had studied this territory thoroughly enough to write a dissertation and whose dissertation would have been peer-reviewed as exceptional.
"Dex."
"Right here, baby."
He started slow. Circular.
