His free hand came up, closed around Ayame's slender throat from behind, and drew her up and out of her sister's arms in one long, liquid pull, her head tipping back against his chest, her spine bending into a drawn-bow arch that presented every inch of her to her witness.
Her body's answer was immediate. She came right there, mid-motion, pussy clamping down and spasming around him in open view, a fresh rush of wetness sheeting down her trembling thighs.
*SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!*
He didn't so much as slow for it.
And her face. Head back, eyes rolled up under fluttering lashes, painted mouth open around a moan with no strength left in it, tongue loose against her lower lip, wearing an expression no clan portrait of the Fujimori heir would ever be allowed to reference.
For the first time, Black Fang's eyes went wide.
The poker face that had survived wars did not survive her little sister's face, utterly and catastrophically perverted, hanging in the moonlight a hand-span from her own.
