“Fucking hell, Scratch.” Sylred shifts uncomfortably while Ronak covers his junk with his hands. “Too much,” he wheezes out. “Serves you right,” I say primly, leaning up to try to peek at their packages standing up in formation. “And yes. I’ll accept you into my covey. But there will be requirements. We’ll discuss it at a later date. When you can see me. And hear me. And give me orgasms.”
