Fenlo twitched.
He'd been silent for too long—longer than a man with that kind of tent in his robes should be. His lip curled, his eyes locked on Elira's bare, trembling breasts as she stood exposed in front of the council. Her shame poured off her in waves—and Fenlo? He didn't just drink it in.
He drowned in it.
His knuckles clenched white on the armrest. His tail thrashed once. Twice.
And then his self-control snapped like a rotten tendon.
"Delicious," he rasped—and lunged.
Elira let out a startled cry, stumbling as Fenlo's ancient hands seized her breasts, pawing and fondling like he was trying to mold bread dough. He groaned aloud, face twisted in deranged bliss.
"Soft... softer than I imagined," he muttered, breath hot and wheezing. "I've earned this—I've waited so long—!"
Allen didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He smiled.
