“Look at you, Lachis’ka,” he said, his voice gravelly and darkly teasing, the words conjured as usual from a heady mixture of bravado and sheer want. “Always scolding your husband, but you’re still going to come all over him. You’re still going to march out there—in front of everyone—and bid me goodbye while I’m dripping down your thighs.”
Book:A Monsoon Rising