Arya’s teeth scrape against the pad of her finger as he takes the last piece of prosciutto she offers. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, are not on the food but on the heavy globes of her breasts swaying just inches above his face. A single bead of sweat traces a path from her collarbone, down the slope of her tit, disappearing into the shadowed valley between them. The gold chains glint, a cold, hard line against her flushed, warm skin. He chews slowly, his throat working, and then swallows. The scent of their fucking, a thick musk of cum, sweat, and her sweet milk, hangs in the air, a potent perfume that makes his cock twitch against his thigh.

“That’s not what I’m hungry for,” he rasps, his voice a low vibration that she feels through her hand still resting on his chest. His grip on her ass cheek tightens, the possessive pressure a familiar, thrilling ache. He doesn’t look at the nightstand, his gaze locked on her chest with the unwavering focus of a predator.