Primal Reclaiming

The air in the living room feels thick and heavy since Cyrus arrived. He stands by the hearth, the fabric of his trousers pulled taut against his massive endowment—a deliberate, mocking display that has Lydia’s eyes pinned to his waist, her breath coming in shallow hitches. Cyrus catches her staring and lets out a low, predatory chuckle. "Still the same girl, aren't you, Lydia?" Cyrus rumbles, stepping into her personal space. He doesn't ask; he simply hooks a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "You always did have a taste for more than your husband could provide. Poor Thalia over there can't even feel me anymore—I've stretched her out until she’s practically useless. Isn't that right, Thalia?" Thalia sits on the sofa next to you, her expression a mask of elegant, jaded