The corrupted glow of Pyris's aura—pink-gold, drenched in the sins of a thousand lifetimes—still coiled around them like smoke in a temple. But this was no place of worship.
This was the altar.
Her thighs were trembling, soaked, parted. Her lace clung to her slit like a dripping offering, her clit erect, her inner muscles still fluttering with leftover pulses of pleasure. And Pyris, that corrupted vision of pink-gold temptation, was still kneeling—his lips glistening with her juice, eyes lit like stormlight.
"Well, such an unforgettable and indistinctive taste~"
But Esmeralda, breath ragged, gaze electric, pushed him back with shaking hands.
"I need… to see it," she whispered.
He rose slowly, that grin never leaving his lips. "You sure you're ready?"
She didn't answer.
And Esmeralda willingly knelt before it.
