He sat.
The couch received him with the creak of old wood, and he pulled them both.
One hand finding Soha's wrist. The other finding the succubus's forearm. Two clean tugs — not rough, not gentle, simply directive, the pulls of a man who has decided on an arrangement and is implementing it.
They landed on his legs simultaneously.
One on each thigh.
Soha on his left — her pregnant belly pressing against his ribs from the side, the dome of it warm and taut, the swell of the pregnancy resting against his lower abs as she adjusted her position with the automatic wariness of a woman who has learned tonight that sitting on this man's lap has consequences.
The succubus on his right — her enormous ass settling against his thigh with the full warm weight of it, her golden wings folding behind her, her tail coiling once around his calf with the absent possessive habit it had developed.
Both of their boobs were now at chest level.
His chest level.
