The bedroom door sighed open—no latch or much of a creak—just the velvet whisper of sin given flesh.
Cassiopeia stepped inside, and the air thickened, sweet and heavy as incense before a blasphemy.
Phei's breath shattered in his throat. Gods, he'd buried himself in the depths of her ass, mapped every ridge of her with his lips and fingertips, yet each appearance of her struck him like a consecrated blade—holy to touch, damned to desire given what she was aiming to do to him after here.
She was too much. A violation of mortal measure. Her body had been carved by hands that knew no mercy—curves so extreme they mocked heaven's own design, each swell of her was a whispered temptation, each dip a promise of ruin.
Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder like spilled ink, framing a face flushed with the heat of summoning.
