The Saint Sister lies collapsed across the disheveled bed, face smooshed sideways into the pillow, muffling her groans, body twitching through the last aftershocks of her orgasm, while Vuvi paces a tight, impatient line across the wrecked floorboards, arms crossed, one boot tapping an irritated rhythm against the warped wood.
The room looks like a small storm passed through it, sheets torn half off the mattress, a shattered vase leaking water across the nightstand, gold light still clinging faintly to the air in slow, dissipating wisps that drift and fade every time the ceiling fan turns overhead.
Every surface within arm's reach of the bed gleams wet under the lamplight, candle wax pooled and hardened mid-drip on the sill, and the whole chamber smells thickly of oil, magic, and something sweeter underneath that Vuvi can't help but savor despite herself.
"Are you done?" Vuvi asks.
