Her breath came in gasps, lips parted in moans as her body twisted in sync with her companions.
The boy—barely eighteen, was the reason for the helpless cry of the both woman. He bore the Marquis's fierce stare and the elder woman's soft features. A life born of both bloodlines, now shared between them.
Together, they moved like a single creature caught in the trap of pleasure—beautiful, obscene, and entirely without shame.
The Marquis took a sip of his wine, slow and unhurried. He wasn't aroused in the typical sense. No, what stirred behind those eyes was darker.
"Come on, Shayla," the Marquis murmured, his tone heavy with expectation and unspoken command. "Our son Vigg doesn't seem pleasured enough."
His fingers tightened around his wine glass, swirling the liquid with slow movements as if savoring every drop. His eyes remained locked on the bed where Shayla and Vigg were locked in a tense embrace.
