Still she could not take more than six inches of him and lately that limit had been increased slightly from her training:
The Void-Ice construct that rested inside her pussy; cold and patient, reshaping what needed time to change, slowly preparing her tight, responsive core to take more of him, to feel every ridge and pulse with an intensity that would eventually shatter that famous composure into something hot, wet, and beautifully honest.
Eventually, she would take more.
Properly and comfortably without hurting her.
And when she did, she would pretend it had always been inevitable.
Phei could already see the look she would wear. Calm. Superior. Deeply fraudulent; the victorious face of a woman accepting a miracle while acting as if the universe had merely corrected a clerical error.
Unfortunately, Cassiopeia's pride was not the thing pulling at his mood.
Her absence was.
Yesterday, he had called it work.
