The delegates stared. The guards stared. The servants stared. The merchants. The diplomats. The soldiers. Everyone. The man — the man from the tavern, the man who had propositioned the Empress, the man who had called her "Miss Little Pussy" — was walking before her. Into the banquet hall. As if he owned it.
Three women — delegates from a minor house, seated at the far table — rubbed their thighs together. The motion — subtle, involuntary, the clenching of thighs — was the body's response. To the mana. To the dragon intimidation. To the aura that radiated from his body. The aura that said 'dragon'. That said 'predator'. That said — 'mate'.
Their pussies — beneath their silk gowns, beneath their cotton undergarments — were wet. The moisture — the arousal, the involuntary, biological arousal — was there. The response of women to a being whose mana said — 'fuck me'. The pheromone. The mana. The — presence.
The Empress noticed.
