The foxgirl—still trembling in the doorway—yanked her hand from Fina's grasp and stepped back, shaking her head furiously.
"N-no. I shouldn't be here. I—I'm married," she stammered, clutching her robes like they could protect her from the heat in her veins.
Allen propped himself up on one elbow, cum still glistening on his cock, his smirk lazy but sharp. "You sure didn't seem too married when you were finger-deep outside our hut."
Her ears flattened. Her lips opened—but no words came. Her face was redder than a sunburn.
Fina crossed her arms under her cum-streaked tits, giving the foxgirl a very unsubtle once-over. "So what's the plan? Run home to your husband smelling like pussy and regret? Or stay and find out what your cunt's been craving?"
That earned a gasp. The foxgirl actually looked offended—like she had any moral ground left to stand on with her thighs still slick and her robe front damp.
