The painful tightness dissolves away as my body adjusts to him, and I grind against Memnon a little, testing out whether I’m good.
His manacles clink again, and I see his arms strain against the bonds as he throws his head back for a moment, exhaling a ragged breath. “This is the sweetest torment, little witch.”
The sight of him truly at my mercy now emboldens me. I place a hand on his chest and lift myself off his cock until only the tip remains in me. Then I sink back down.
Again the chains rattle and Memnon’s muscles strain. I like that reaction.
I do it again and again and again.
Memnon groans. “My lovely, wicked mate. I was wrong earlier. This is simply torment.”
“Good,” I say. “You deserve to be tormented.” I find a rhythm and stick to it. The sorcerer’s hips move in time with mine, meeting me thrust for thrust until I’m gasping and moaning.
I look at the sorcerer’s face, and my heart feels like it’s caving in, and my lungs can’t quite draw in enough air.
I cup the side of his face. Beloved. I remember when he was beloved by me. I can feel the emotion right there, waiting to sweep back in.
He doesn’t have to be my enemy. He doesn’t have to even be just my friend. We could have what we once did.
I lean forward and kiss Memnon again, my hand moving from his cheek. I’m torn. So torn. I want to let go. I’m scared to do so. I’m not sure I'll have a choice soon.
The manacles clang and the headboard knocks against the wall, and then I feel Memnon’s arms wrap around me even as he continues to kiss me.
I flick my eyes to the headboard, where the now empty manacles hang limply against Memnon’s belt.
“I’m sorry, est amage,” he breathes, breaking off the kiss. “I wanted to be a good captive. I did. But after two thousand years apart, I have grown greedy.”
With that, he flips us so I’m beneath him, and now he’s setting the pace, his cock driving into me harder and harder, the action making slick, wet sounds.
I gasp out a breath, not just because the change in tempo is rapidly driving me toward an orgasm. Pinned beneath him like this, I’m not in control. Not unless I command him, and my heart’s not interested in that.
Instead, I stare up at him, feeling lighter than air, afraid I might fall. Terrified he’ll notice and make it happen.
So I force my eyes away and rake my nails up his back, focusing my attention on where the two of us are joined.
“Love your pussy most when it’s stretched around me like this,” he says. “I can feel it fluttering.”
Memnon grinds himself against me, swiveling his hips in a figure eight motion.
I gasp at the sensation, nearly going boneless.
When I meet his eyes, he flashes me a wicked look. “There are perks to my knowing your body as well as I do.”
You can let go, a small voice inside me says. He will catch you.
Don’t fall, another voice cautions. Once you do, there will be no going back.
Let go.
Hold on.
Fall.
Don’t.
I grasp Memnon’s ass, my nails digging in as I brace myself, each thrust throwing me closer and closer to the edge.
“Tell me to stop and I will stop,” he says, unaware of my thoughts. “Bound or not, I’m still your captive.” He means it too. I see that.
But I can’t tell him to stop. Not when each stroke feels like a slice of heaven.
So instead, I stare at him as I climb and climb and—
My nails dig in. “Memnon.”
That’s all I manage to get out before my orgasm shatters through me. Memnon watches me as I come, his strokes relentless, his eyes greedily drinking in my expression.
I stare into those smoky amber eyes, locked in whatever spell he’s cast. Or maybe this is the magic of our bond—the one fate made for us.
Fall. Don’t. Fall.
Memnon comes then, his body crashing against mine again and again and again.
His orgasm seems endless, and his expression is the definition of bliss. His eyes never leave mine, even after his climax has rolled through him.
My heart thunders.
Will either of us know when the bond between us is broken? Will we sense it? I want to give him a command, just to check. But then he’ll know I’m checking the bond, and he’ll quickly put together just how close I am to falling for him. I don’t want him to know. I still have my sliver of control, and I want to wield it until it disintegrates away.
Memnon slows, studying me as he pulls out, a slight frown marring his lips, as though he senses the undercurrents of my thoughts. But then the expression is wiped free from his face, and I have no idea whether I imagined it all.
Before I get the chance to flee, the sorcerer gathers me to him, and…it’s nice. Really nice.
Maybe I’ll just lie here for a little while…
The shackles were fun, Empress.
They were.
Too bad they didn’t hold you, I say. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I ask. I don’t know why I ask. He’s already given me this bed, this room. But now he’s in it, and our bodies are cooling, and this situation feels hasty.
Right here, in my arms.
There’s no hesitation to his words, just a shit ton of kingly authority. It’s pretty ballsy, considering I’m the one with the commands. At least I think I can still command him.
But his arms feel nice. No, better than nice—they feel like home, even if I’m loath to admit it.
How long are you planning on holding me? I ask.
As long as I can get away with.
Warmth suffuses me. Damn this man.
For several minutes, the two of us lie there, Memnon playing with my hair and me tracing his tattoos. I nearly put myself in a trance, following those flowing, curving lines.
“What’s the strangest thing about the modern world?” I ask.
“There are many strange things about this world,” he says smoothly, as though the question isn’t completely out of the blue. “Cars, computers, phones, television. There is such precision to even common things, and there are so many choices—gods, the choices. There’s also the ease of existence. Things that once took hours you can now buy instantly and cheaply.”
“Is any of it off-putting?” I ask.
“It is all off-putting.”
“You wouldn’t know it,” I say softly. This is a man who’s electronically deposited money into my account, who drove me in his car, then his motorcycle, and who is holding down a job, even if it is for the supernatural mafia. A man who has some grasp on modern fashion and who now speaks English flawlessly.
“I have spent whole weeks mining people’s minds for information on this modern world so that I might not fall prey to it,” he confesses.
I try not to think of what that must’ve looked like and how many people’s heads he must’ve pried into.
“Do you regret being here, in the modern world?”
“If you had asked me before I saw your memories, I would’ve said yes,” Memnon answers. “Now, however, I know truly what you did. You, Roxilana, bought us a future when there was none, and you paid for it with your life. We no longer have armies or palaces, but we exist, little witch. You go by a different name and speak a different tongue and wear different clothes, but you are still my soul mate and my queen.”