Memnon exhales sharply, a shiver running through him.
“Are you good?” he asks softly, sensing my tension.
I nod, swallowing a little. “Just give me a moment.” I had forgotten how big he was.
For several seconds, all I can hear are our ragged breaths and the distant, pleasured cries of other witches. The sorcerer leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of my jaw, then my cheeks, then my nose, then my eyelids. With each gentle brush of his lips, my body relaxes, and my core stretches, accommodating him.
“Gods,” he murmurs in Sarmatian. “Two thousand years and I’m finally home.”
I don’t want to admit it, but I feel it too. Those gentle, reverent kisses, the fullness in my core—this feels right, so right. This is more intimate than I planned, but a deviant part of me enjoys this anyway.
“Don’t move,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
His lips brush against my mouth. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
My body has already stretched for him, but I stay there a few extra moments, just to relish it a little longer. Eventually, my arousal takes over, and I shift against him, now needing the friction of his thrusts. Only…they don’t come.
Memnon presses his forehead to mine, letting out a husky laugh. “Amazing as this feels, est amage, you’re going to have to release me from your last command if you want me to continue.”
Oh, right.
“You can move,” I whisper, too overcome by the feel of him to be embarrassed.
He pulls away to kiss me under my jaw. Memnon drags his cock almost all the way out of me before thrusting back in.
I gasp.
“You feel so godsdamned good,” he murmurs, grabbing my hands from behind his neck and threading his fingers between mine as his hips continue to rock against me. “My fierce little fiancée.”
The reminder drags away some of the lust-driven haze that I’m under.
“This means nothing,” I insist.
“This means everything,” Memnon says, squeezing my hands. His next thrust is punishingly deep, and I moan as it hits every nerve ending inside me.
The sorcerer still wants something soft here; he’s tried to angle this to his advantage.
But he isn’t the one in control.
I meet his eyes. “Harder,” I demand, lifting my chin. I don’t want to be reminded that we were married once or that we might be again someday. Terms be damned, right now, all I want from him is sensation alone. “Fuck me like you’re determined to get me to come as fast as possible.”
Memnon groans as his own pace picks up. He bites his bottom lip as he looks at me. I don’t think he’s aware of the action, but it has me mesmerized. I moan at the sensation, tilting my head back as I begin to climb once more.
The sorcerer leans in. “Just so we’re clear, Selene, I want to give you soul-devouring sex,” he says as he slams into me, his hips pumping faster and faster. He fucks me like it’s the one thing he’s been made for. “Not this hasty shit.” Each punishing stroke of his cock sends me closer and closer to the edge. “I want you to see the life we once shared—the one I still want to give you,” he says, squeezing my hands.
“You’ll give me what I ask for,” I tell him. “Isn’t that what you want from your queen?”
Memnon holds my gaze, his thrusts relentless. “I live to serve you, Empress.”
I can’t read his expression, not in the darkness here, but there’s no trace of mockery or disappointment in his voice. I think he’s being wholly sincere. But it is a reminder: I will only get my way like this so long as the bond remains and I don’t fall in love with him.
The sorcerer pulls down one of the straps of my dress, exposing the breast beneath. Bending down, he sucks on my nipple and teases it between his teeth.
That’s all it takes.
I cry out as my climax explodes through me, clouding my vision. I squeeze his hands as wave after wave of it crests.
Memnon groans against my skin. “Missed the feel of you coming around me.” He hisses in a breath. “Squeezing my cock too good,” he says as he continues to mercilessly drive into me.
Memnon has barely uttered the words when I feel him thicken. I cry out again as the extra pressure extends my climax.
“Gods, Selene.” He pistons hard into me, abandoning my breast in favor of my lips.
And then he’s coming.
He kisses me through wave after wave of his own orgasm. I can feel an echo of it across our bond, amplifying the receding edge of my own. He’s in my mouth, in my pussy, and wrapped around me, pressed against me as closely as he can get. I sense if he could, he would simply melt into me.
I like the thought. Right now, with the brew still burning like fire in my veins, I wouldn’t mind Memnon sinking into me and never leaving.
Eventually, his thrusts gentle, and he gives my mouth one last kiss as he pulls out of me. He clutches my body to his as he lowers me to the ground.
“Can you stand?” he asks as he sets me on my feet.
My unsteady legs immediately fold.
He catches me. “All right, that’s a no,” he says, lifting me back into his arms.
“I’m fine,” I insist, but Memnon is already wrapping my legs around his waist and holding me so that we’re chest to chest.
The two of us gaze at each other. I lock my ankles together and twine my arms around his neck.
“This is nice too,” I admit.
Memnon’s eyes twinkle. “Good, est amage, because I have no intention of putting you back down.”
I hear the rustle of his jeans and the sound of his zipper being done up as his magic redresses him. And then he begins to walk.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Back to your room. Unless you’d rather stay out here?”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or if it’s a legitimate question, but I shake my head. “My place is good.”
His gaze drops to my lips, and he nods. “Good.”
Memnon hasn’t taken twenty steps when he makes a tortured noise and glances down between us.
Heat rises to my cheeks when I realize what he’s noticing. Memnon’s come is leaking out of me and getting all over his shirt.
“I’m going to make a mess of your clothes,” I say softly.
“If you think I’m anything but pleased,” he says, “you’re mistaken.”
My cheeks burn hotter, even as I tighten my grip. Given this position, the two of us are painfully close. As close as we used to be when we’d ride together—closer, technically, since then I always faced away from him.
On a whim, I press my face into his neck and breathe in. The action causes his hold on me to tighten.
“You don’t smell like grass or horse anymore,” I say, surprised and maybe a little dismayed. He doesn’t even smell like sweat. He used to. I close my eyes, and I can remember with striking clarity that other version of him. His low-slung pants and kurta, which he’d peel off the moment his torso got too sweaty from training. The bow and gorytos he wore in addition to his blades. The warm, sunbaked feel of his skin after a long day out on the steppe.
“That must be a welcome relief.” Memnon’s voice has that husky, intimate quality to it.
I shake my head against him, playing with a few locks of his hair at the nape of his neck. “No, it’s not.” I frown to myself, then breathe him in again.
Memnon does still smell like himself in the most innate way. And it’s that smell that makes me lean my head against him.