Her grip on his thighs was real. Not performance—actual resistance, her fingers pressing hard, her core fighting against his palm—
But his power was categorical and her hesitation was not nothing, and the combination moved her forward regardless.
GLUCK.
Her throat swallowed around him reflexively, her gills—she didn't have gills, Sabrina was 'not' a mermaid, her throat was simply closing and opening—the muscles of her neck working around something that had no business being where it was.
GLUCK. GLUCK.
Her eyes, which had been locked on his face in furious disbelief, began a slow rotation—not all the way yet, just drifting, the gold of her irises sliding upward as sensation overrode intent.
Tears formed at the inner corners. Didn't fall yet. Just gathered.
GLUCK. GLUCK. GLUCK.
Seven inches. Eight.
Her fingers on his thighs had stopped pressing out and started gripping down.
The entire hall was absolutely silent.
