Her body was still going. The orgasm cycling in long, continuous waves, her thighs shaking around his hand, her pussy releasing in smaller, secondary pulses, the fluid running down her inner thigh in a thin warm stream and pooling on the floor below her foot.
The green halfs had stopped glowing.
Their work was done.
The seven men looked.
At the fluid on the table touching their coat sleeves.
At Eliantra's shaking, naked body held up by one hand.
At the desk moved a foot from where it had been.
At Viktor.
Viktor's cock — visible, thick, the cockhead flushed an angry, swollen red, the whole length twitching with the visible, rhythmic pulse of something that had been denied its conclusion and was making its opinion about that very clear — was right 'there.' The vein running along the underside of it visibly distended, the tip beading in a slow, continuous drip that ran from the head and fell to the floor.
He was close.
All seven men understood this simultaneously.
