It was the fifth night after the attack, and just like all the others, Orek had found a moment to slip away into the dusk to take himself in hand. He’d mercilessly worked his cock, imagining it was her smaller, softer hands instead, dreaming what her touch must feel like. He’d grit his fangs and snarl her name as he released into the river, letting it carry away the scent-heavy spend and his sharp, aching longing—momentarily, at least.
