From dawn to the early glimmers of first light the following day, Altair had Lady Elena so hard her bones felt like water in his hands. There was no tension in her body, no stress or looks of regret. The only thing he could see was relief that perhaps it was over and the sting of euphoria sweeter than honey.
He hadn't known a Ninth Circle to sweat much, but Elena was drenched, her hair matted, clinking to her skin like wet paper. Her bare chest heaved up and down, bruised red, with the imprint of his hands. Her nippled twitch, inflamed from where he'd pinched and drawn blood to satiate his hunger.
A silly smile placated her lips that never seemed to fade. Altair almost wondered if she was all right by the way drool unceremoniously slipped from her lips.
'It's not any of my business,' He thought, ringing the servant bell. "I'll leave you to the maids." It was his Sword Maid that came in, drawing him a bath that he welcomed with open arms.
