Ren spread her legs, exposing her biology lesson to the firelight.
The cool air of the cave hit her wetness, sending a shiver straight up her spine. She bit her bottom lip hard, practically drawing blood, just to hold back a moan.
Altair didn't blink. He leaned forward, his silver eyes narrowing with the intensity of an eagle spotting a mouse from three miles up. He stared between her legs so intently that Ren felt like she could spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.
"You are wet," Altair commented, his voice a low, observant rumble.
He tilted his head, analyzing the situation like a scientist looking at a Petri dish.
"The fluid is different," he noted, his face serious. "It is clear. There are no white tadpoles. And it smells... sweet."
Ren shuddered violently.
He wasn't trying to be sexy. He wasn't whispering sweet nothings. He was making dry, biological observations. But to Ren, his voice—that deep, smooth baritone—felt like a physical stroke against her clit.
