Around him. 'On' him. Not on his skin but 'into' it—the warmth of her choosing the topography of his frame, pooling first at his shoulders before moving with deliberate, claiming slowness down his chest, across his hips, finding the specific architecture there and making her decision about it.
His cock—still standing—was touched by something that felt unmistakably like the interior of a warm mouth applied from all directions simultaneously.
It did not waver.
It was grasped—'held'—by something that had no fingers but exercised precision regardless, and then placed, with the delicate authority of a woman who considers herself an appropriate container: tucked, secured, the fabric of her manifesting around the shape of him in warm crimson linen. Underwear. 'His' underwear. His outer robe forming in successive layers—the red cloth he always wore settling into place over it, the sash, the drape.
He was dressed.
In her.
