Their wetness pooled and dripped. Myrcella's juices slipped under the sheet like a small, obscene river; Trill's flowed first into Myrcella's ass and then joined that stream; Ayane's own slick slid down Trill's curve and poured into the path Myrcella had already made. The mess gleamed like a tiny, filthy Niagara—shrunken, obscene, and unbearably arousing. The scent of them rose—sweet, musky, hot—and it dug into my chest, making something low and hungry tremble.
When I moved closer my hand went straight to Trill's ass, because I couldn't help it. Her cheeks were massive and warm and yielding under my palm—meaty, supple, exactly what I wanted to feel. She didn't flinch; she leaned into my grip, a small sound of pleased impatience slipping out of her throat.
