The revenge.
Not her revenge. His. He had ordered it. He had sent Edda. He had killed the man who had killed her mother. He had done it without being asked. Without being told. He had done it because— because she was his. Because the man who had killed her mother had been a threat. Because the man who had promised her as a concubine had been a claim on his property.
She trembled.
Her body shook. Her emerald hair swung. Her hands — on his thighs — gripped. Her nails dug into the muscle.
She sucked.
Harder. The cock. She turned her head. Her mouth found the shaft. She licked. She kissed. She took the head — the swollen, dark head — into her mouth. She sucked. Hard. Deep. The tears fell. From her green eyes. Down her cheeks. Onto the shaft. Onto the head. The salt of her tears on the skin of his cock.
"Hnnn..." she moaned. The sound was muffled. The cock in her mouth. The vibration of her grief and her gratitude and her surrender traveling through the shaft.
She sucked harder.
