The Sin'dorei were such a tiny race, that much was evident by how easily Molakatar manipulated his limber companion. Wikyr gazed hungrily at their lewd display, unable to look away from where they were joined. A deep ache had begun to grow at the apex of her thighs. The fingers that had been so quickly and thoroughly cleaned by the blood elf girl returned to cup her heated core, which had already begun to leak with her hot and silky fluid. She dipped her middle finger into warm honey once more, terribly unsatisfied until she heard a familiar accent. His sonorous voice made her aching muscles clench as she hesitated before tearing her attention away from the busy couple. She studied him with hazy half-lidded eyes, her expression wanton.  The barstool that she had perched upon was high, but she still had to peer up at the warrior. She needed something from him, she realized. Her eyes scanned his body before settling on the huge plated belt around his waist.<span style="color: #9999ff">"You're a little over dressed.." </span>She spoke in their native tongue. Her brightly glowing eyes flicked back up to his face, frustration evident in a tiny crease between her long dark brows.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>