He pulled out slowly.
The cock coming free with the unhurried withdrawal of a man who has nowhere to be — glistening, heavy, still half-flushed from the work it had done, hanging with the comfortable authority of something that has earned its rest.
He sat.
The throne receiving him the way it always did — the stone warm from the garden's incense, the silk beneath him carrying the ambient heat of an evening that had been thoroughly eventful.
Akane moved before he was fully seated.
Still shaking.
Her belly swaying with the aftershock of her own breathing, her nine tails dragging across the stone behind her, her milk-damp breasts catching the lantern light as she folded — carefully, one hand on the armrest, the other on her belly, lowering herself onto her knees in front of him with the composed determination of a woman who has just been destroyed and has returned to useful function ahead of schedule.
Her golden eyes found his face as she descended.
Warm.
Possessive.
