A/N: I don't know if any of you is fond of Ava but she's here!
Ava burst through the door like a storm of leather and gun oil, eyes locking on me instantly—hungry, feral, months of pent-up cock-hunger flashing across her face.
She was dressed for war: black tactical pants hugging her thick thighs, boots that could crush skulls, tight jacket straining over her heavy tits, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that begged to be yanked. Her team—four stone-faced operatives—flanked her, gear rattling.
"Eros—" she started, voice cracking with relief and raw need, but I cut her off with a grin, already shifting.
I was already Eros—hair dark, eyes sharp to predatory gold. The hospital gown was gone, replaced by black fatigues I'd materialized from the shop—tight, armored, crotch bulging.
"Room's yours," I told the team she came with, jerking my thumb at the bed. "Maintain the illusion. I am dying in there. No one in, no one out."
