"Spoken like a true queen," he purrs. A satisfied smirk lights up his eyes as he drinks in her reactions. He shall have to think of a dozen more pet names to call her if she's going to look like that every time.
As she kisses him, he can't help but give in to the urge to tease her restraint. His fangs graze her bottom lip, not enough to break skin but the promise is there. At the same time, her fingers running across his pecks draw a deep and honest shiver out of him. He's noticeably leaning into her grip on his hips.
"Yes, My Lady."
He steps back from her grasp so she can have a better view as he pops open the buttons of his shirt, one by one, with practiced grace. Each move he makes, from the way he jerks his tie away, to the snap of his belt coming out of the loops has a sense of precise theatricality--like a stage magician redirecting his audiences' attention to exactly where he wants it. But there's nothing cynical about the performance. By the time he's stepping out of his trousers, there's a triumphant glint in his eyes.
He's down to just his undershorts and undershirt. The former are stripped down first. His manhood might not be the impressive girth of Max's, but Erik is a respectable average with the foreskin intact. He's also very nicely trimmed and groomed, as one might expect when that's part of his profession. The real show, however, is in the fact that, after a brief moment of hesitation, he reaches to draw his undershirt up and all the way over his head. Few get that privilege, but after the understanding she's shown, she's worthy of it.
After the shirt comes off, his eyes raise to meet hers, and in them is a look more vulnerable than any he's shown her yet. She's laid him bare in more ways than one, to his own surprise.
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As she kisses him, he can't help but give in to the urge to tease her restraint. His fangs graze her bottom lip, not enough to break skin but the promise is there. At the same time, her fingers running across his pecks draw a deep and honest shiver out of him. He's noticeably leaning into her grip on his hips.
"Yes, My Lady."
He steps back from her grasp so she can have a better view as he pops open the buttons of his shirt, one by one, with practiced grace. Each move he makes, from the way he jerks his tie away, to the snap of his belt coming out of the loops has a sense of precise theatricality--like a stage magician redirecting his audiences' attention to exactly where he wants it. But there's nothing cynical about the performance. By the time he's stepping out of his trousers, there's a triumphant glint in his eyes.
He's down to just his undershorts and undershirt. The former are stripped down first. His manhood might not be the impressive girth of Max's, but Erik is a respectable average with the foreskin intact. He's also very nicely trimmed and groomed, as one might expect when that's part of his profession. The real show, however, is in the fact that, after a brief moment of hesitation, he reaches to draw his undershirt up and all the way over his head. Few get that privilege, but after the understanding she's shown, she's worthy of it.
After the shirt comes off, his eyes raise to meet hers, and in them is a look more vulnerable than any he's shown her yet. She's laid him bare in more ways than one, to his own surprise.