The moan was genuine.
The satisfaction was not.
Her lips slid down the shaft, the cockhead pressing back against her throat, and she swallowed it with practiced ease and absolutely zero enthusiasm, her jaw working, her throat working, the sounds of it filling the cold mountain air.
"'Slurrp—'"
She pulled back to the head.
Rested it on her tongue.
Looked at the empty sky where he had been.
"If only," she said, around the cock in her mouth, which did interesting things to the pronunciation, "it was 'that' man's dick."
She breathed in.
Not Arvij's smell.
The memory of the other.
The scent that had been in the air when he'd been there — the particular cultivation pressure of a body that operated at a level that made even her pulse 'acknowledge' it — and her finger crooked inside herself and she moaned, genuinely this time, the sound climbing the mountain and scattering the last of the birds.
"'Mnh~—'"
Her hand tightened on Arvij's thigh.
Her eyes stayed on the empty sky.
