Sol pulled back from her wet, silk-covered breast, the wet suction sound echoing obscenely in the quiet expanse of the throne room. He lingered for a moment, watching the way the damp, translucent fabric clung to her hardened nipple, rising and falling with her frantic, shallow breaths.
Isylia was panting, her head thrown back against the obsidian throne, her face flushed a deep, molten gold. Her hair, usually a halo of perfect solar rays, was fanned out in a chaotic disarray. She looked ravaged. She looked messy. She looked incredibly, tangibly real.
"You are..." Isylia wheezed, trying to find her breath, her chest heaving against his chest, "a glutton. An unthinking glutton. You have stained my clothes. You have bruised the flesh. Isn't it enough? Aren't you satisfied, yet?"
"Satisfied?" Sol rasped, his voice rough with a hunger that seemed to have no bottom. "I'm just getting started."
