The shower lingered like some languorous, dripping sacrament of pure, dripping lust around the Young Dragon's body; the scalding steam wreathing the mirror in thick, opulent veils of pearl and mist until the glass itself seemed to throb, breathe and fog with forbidden anticipation.
By the time Phei emerged, the air hung heavy with the sacred, heady musk of heated water, clean male skin and the thick animal undertone of masculine arousal — a potent virile scent that wrapped around the senses like warm honey on his raw sin.
There; framed within the doorway she had imperiously pushed ajar, stood Eira — arms were neatly and elegantly folded beneath the delicate swell of her generous ample bosom, wings held in perfect, imperious stillness while every inch of her diminutive, yet devastatingly voluptuous form was like a living blasphemy against restraint.
