Solas

The grand hall was a symphony of wet skin and panting breaths, but Lace’s eyes were fixed on the throne.

Solas moved with a slow, meditative rhythm, his pale, slender back a taut canvas of muscle as he worked between the Inquisitor’s spread thighs. The Inquisitor, had his head tipped back against the high throne, one large hand resting possessively on the back of Solas’s bald head.

Lace mounted the dais, the sounds of the hall fading into a dull hum. She could see it all now. The slick slide of Solas’s lips along the Inquisitor's thick cock. The way his throat worked to accommodate the length. A soft, choked gulp echoed in the intimate space between them. The Inquisitor's eyes, heavy-lidded with pleasure, flicked open and met hers. A slow, knowing smile spread across his bearded face.

“Scout Harding,” he rumbled, his voice thick. “Join us.”

Solas pulled off with a wet, obscene sound, his own erection bobbing, flushed and needy, against his stomach. He turned his head, his strange, calm eyes assessing her. There was no shame there, only a deep, focused hunger.

“She observes,” Solas stated, his voice roughened by use.

“She does more than observe,” Lace said, her own voice surprisingly steady. She knelt on the thick fur rug beside the throne, level with them. The scent of musk and elfroot oil filled her senses. “Mind if I… assist?”