Any bright and spirited woman longs to be admired—admired without the entanglement of politics or gold.
It is vanity, yes, but also the comfort of being cherished. Together, they bring a double delight.
Rosalia suddenly looked enlightened. "I know. It must be the way you're feeding me that's wrong!"
Phield frowned. "What does the method of feeding have to do with the taste of the food itself?"
"Hmph, of course it does. It's missing the 'aura of the living.'"
She guided Phield's hand to rest on her waist. Then, like a teasing little cat, she pressed herself softly against him, exhaling a faintly cool breath against his skin.
"Your body temperature is intoxicating. Now, my servant—feed me with your mouth."
Good heavens. I can't keep up with her pace at all.
Phield nearly choked. He had not expected Rosalia to take the initiative like this.
Only a fool would refuse such an advantage. His hand immediately began to roam.
