Hours had bled into one another.
Roxy lay flat on her back, her chest heaving as she stared up at the ceiling. She was completely exhausted. Her skin was flushed a deep, feverish pink, coated in a fine sheen of sweat and heavily marked with the faint, dark bruises from Syris's busy tongue.
The hot, humid air was thick with the intoxicating, musky scent of arousal and vanilla.
Beside her, Syris lay with his face buried deep into the pillows next to her head. His chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy rhythm. The dark emerald coils of his lower half were loosely draped over her legs, caging her in.
But that was not the most important thing to Roxy.
Her mouth was incredibly dry. Her throat felt like it was coated in sandpaper from screaming his name, and a hollow, aching rumble echoed in her stomach. She had expended a staggering amount of energy keeping up with the starving predator, and she desperately needed hydration.
