The air in Shen Yu's chamber was thick enough to choke, a heavy mixture of jasmine, musk, and raw spiritual pressure.
As the three women worshipped him with frantic, rhythmic intensity, the pressure in Shen Yu's marrow reached a critical threshold. His golden eyes flared, the pupils slitting like a predator's as he felt the sheer volume of his Yang essence surging upward.
Across the compound, in the silent seclusion of her own room, Mei Yilan was a woman possessed.
She lay back against her silk pillows, her chest heaving as she dragged her fingers through her own slick heat. The image of Shen Yu, the god she had seen through the door, was burned into her retinas.
Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the monstrous girth of his cock and the way the powerful Matriarch Meng had looked up at him with a ruined, adoring expression.
