"Flushed and fleeing. Not since her husband drew breath—gods rest his soul, if he deserves it. That man could wring blushes from stone, but you... you've got her fire roaring again, boy."
She paused at the bed's edge, her braided hair catching the light, silver streaks glinting like veins of ore in marble. Up close, her scent wafted to him—amber and spice, warmer than Freja's jasmine, with an undercurrent of aged wine.
Aragon swallowed, his throat dry, but his body betrayed him, his cock bobbing slightly under her scrutiny.
She noticed—of course she did—her eyes dropping to it with unabashed interest, tracing the length from root to tip, lingering on the slick sheen that marked his recent conquest.
A soft hum escaped her, appreciative, and she tilted her head, those high cheekbones casting shadows that sharpened her oval face into something predatory yet inviting.
