That was the first thing—not length, though there was considerable length, but the girth of it, the weight of it as it emerged and settled, half-hard and still growing, the kind of weight that announced itself.
Dark and flushed, veined, already interested, already filling toward something that her body registered at a register entirely below thought.
The blood left her face.
Then returned to it immediately, all of it, all at once.
Viktor looked up from what he was doing and found her expression.
Something moved through his dark eyes—satisfaction, at its most fundamental—and his mouth curved.
"The measurement instrument," he said pleasantly, "requires a moment to calibrate."
Vivian's mouth was open.
She closed it.
Opened it again.
"That is not—" Her voice came out in a register she didn't recognize. "That is not a 'measurement instrument'—"
"It's very accurate," Viktor said.
