Not from the words. From the — timing. The combination. The manipulation and the ejaculation. The geopolitics and the orgasm. The man who had used her army to start a war and who was now coming in her hand. The — impossibility of him. The — totality of him.
He moved.
Fast. Sudden. The motion of a predator. He was on her nipple — and then he was not. He was beside her — and then he was not. He moved. Down. Along her body. Past her breasts. Past her stomach. Past the scales. To her lower half.
He opened her mouth.
No — he opened her legs. Her thick, scaled legs. He spread. The thighs — the massive, muscular thighs — parted. The pussy — the hairy pussy, the bushes, the wet, swollen, well-fucked pussy — was exposed. The lips. The hair. The clit. The opening — still leaking his seed from last night, the white fluid in the dark hair.
He leaned down.
