Dean sat down in the tub, the cloudy water obscuring his oversized physique from view – all but the almost comical bobbing tip of his manhood, like a shark leaving a wake in the water. A cock shark. Glancing at the girl out of the corner of his eye, Dean considered. The power infusing him was waning gradually – as Donovan gave into desire, and as Dean gave into anything but – the Glory that connected the two naturally began to re-balance, to find its natural state. A close look might reveal flickering nuances of what was happening, bits of black in those blue orbs.<br/><br/>But now was not the time. Not yet anyway.<br/><br/>“Umber or mahogany?” He asked, voice slower, as rich and deep as chocolate. A second’s worth of effort and the richly empowered Shadow’s hair flicked to a rich, woodsy mahogany shade. “Is this better?” Tilting his head to the side, eyes flicking from surprising breasts to impish face, Dean arched a matching brow. Now, the dark specks were far more obvious, so dark that it looked as if the absolute infinite of the night were bleeding through the sky.<br/><br/>“And crying uncle is a turn of phrase. It’s usually appropriate for competition between people. When one loses – either due to a lack of strength, stamina, or whatever, one cries ‘uncle’ to end the match. Wrestling is common. And sex is rather like wrestling, especially when it comes to Drow. Do you see?” His explanation was slow, methodical, the hypnotic rhythms of his voice like the lapping of a wave on the shore.<br/><br/>Dangerous to a regular woman, no doubt. But not this one.<br/>