Selma watched her friend being skewered by that massive rod and felt an immense wave of guilt crash over her.
After all, she had thrown Ivy into the fray—literally shoved her toward the wolf and now she was paying the price.
But beneath the guilt, there was something else.
Fascination. Excitement. A dark, secret thrill that made her thighs press together.
Alia, meanwhile, was utterly captivated.
She watched the way Luca moved—not like a beast, but like an artist.
Every shift of his hips, every adjustment of his grip, every subtle change in angle was deliberate, purposeful.
He wasn't just fucking Ivy; he was sculpting her pleasure, molding her body like clay, coaxing sounds from her throat that seemed pulled from somewhere deep and primal.
Ivy was small. Fragile. Her slender build looked like it might snap under the force of Luca's thrusts.
But he adjusted perfectly. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't pounding.
