Jax stood over her, a magnificent, predatory figure silhouetted against the dim light of the chamber.
The air was thick with the scent of her release, a sweet, musky perfume that was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Orianna lay before him, a goddess laid low, her powerful body a beautiful, trembling ruin. She was a canvas of blissful exhaustion, her mind a blank slate wiped clean by the cataclysmic pleasure he had just bestowed upon her.
But the Demon King was not a merciful god. He was a conqueror, and the worship was over. It was time for the claiming.
He began to undress, his movements slow, deliberate, and utterly mesmerizing.
He wasn't just removing his clothes; he was putting on a show, a performance of raw, masculine power designed to stoke the embers of her desire back into a raging inferno.
He grabbed the hem of his tunic, the fabric straining against his powerful chest, and pulled it over his head in a single, fluid motion.
