The choice of words spiked through Krem, dragged a noise out of him, because he hated it, even though it was true. He was wet to soaking, his cunt and his inner thighs, making a mess of himself, and all from the spectacle of fucking his lover.

So he said nothing. He could say nothing. Gannicus's mouth and fingers pressed word and thought and air from him, so all he was left with was a gasping desperation and squirming hips, fucking himself back toward those seeking fingers and tongue.