Seleyena's tear-streaked face was a mess of lust and shame—cheeks flushed, lips swollen and parted, glasses fogged and slipping.
Sweat clung to her forehead, damp strands of dark hair sticking to her skin as her eyes, wide and glazed, begged without words.
Her hips moved on instinct—grinding slow and desperate against Cruxius, chasing friction, chasing fire.
Her panties were soaked through—barely clinging to her, transparent with wetness, outlining every plump curve of her aching slit. Her clit throbbed, starved for contact.
Every rub dragged a moan from her throat—"Mmh… haaah… aah…"—cracked, raw, helpless.
Cruxius didn't touch her. Not yet.
He just sat there, dark eyes locked on hers, cold and calculating—his face calm, but his body all tension. Power.
His shirt stretched tight over a broad chest, muscles flexing as he simply watched her fall apart. A rogue strand of hair fell over his brow, sharp and wild.
