I’m coming for you.
Fuck. I really must not forget this.
CHAPTER 11
The sheet beneath my body is soft, and the room is full of a set of unusual yet oddly comforting smells—cedar and frankincense, smoke and brine.
Soft light flickers from over a dozen terra-cotta lamps set throughout the room, and out the open windows, I hear the calls of summer bugs punctuating the night.
I glance at the bed I’m lying on, the carved wood frame made of Lebanese cedar, though I can’t say precisely how I know that. Nor can I say how I know before I touch them that there are two golden fibulas—clasps—that hold my dress together at the shoulders. A couple of deft flicks, and the whole dress could fall away.
Movement on the far side of the room catches my eye.
A man steps into the open doorway, and I start at the sight of his face.
Memnon.
The fear I expect to feel is nowhere in sight. Instead, longing wells in me. I forgot how handsome he is, though, to be fair, handsome is too tame a word for his sharp, fearsome beauty. He wears only a pair of loose low-slung trousers, his tattooed upper body on full display.
Those luminous brown eyes are full of desire as he approaches me. He walks right up to the bed and cups my face, even as I wrap my arms around his torso, feeling the hard packed muscles of his back.
“Roxi.” He says the name with a deep, guttural roll, the lids of his eyes growing hooded as they take me in.
An instant later, he’s kissing me like he’s drowning and I’m air. I can’t help but kiss him back. I haven’t forgotten how well he kissed or how he did it with a possessiveness he shouldn’t feel.
I don’t mind it either. I know I should. But all I can think about is the fact this man probably fucks like he kisses, and I wouldn’t mind finding that out for certain.
I stare up at him, my heart beating fast. I can’t seem to breathe, and there’s a pain in my chest that I think is happiness, only I’ve never known happiness to hurt.
He searches my eyes. “My empress. My wife.” And then, as though he can’t help himself, he leans in and kisses me again, his lips rough and hungry. I’m swept out to sea by the glide of that mouth. I fall into the kiss, enjoying how he tastes like wine.
He drapes his body over mine, pinning me to the bed, and I gasp into his mouth, the action tugging at me.
I break off the kiss, my lips already feeling swollen, and I search Memnon’s eyes. “I’ve…missed you,” I breathe.
But no, that’s not what I meant to say. Is it?
He smiles, the action showing off one of his sharp canines.
Memnon leans in as though he’s about to kiss me again. Right when his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine, he says, “I don’t believe you.”
He shifts his weight on me, and all sorts of wanton desires well within me. I’m breathless with them, even though there’s confusion too.
Something isn’t right, but what?
I know I said the wrong thing, and he had the wrong response for it, yet he’s still on me, and my hands are still caressing his back, and his hips are lightly moving against mine.
He shifts again so his lips skim across my cheek and brush my ear. “But I have missed you. I have missed you so fucking much, little witch.”
He moves from my ear to press a kiss to my chin. There’s a devious gleam in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth curves up in another smile. He somehow makes sinister look sexy.
His hand moves to my waist. “Let me show you just how much,” he says, gathering the material of my dress with his fingers.
He pulls my skirt higher and higher, baring my legs. The entire time, he stares at me, his eyes daring me to stop him.
I don’t.
I’m too curious and full of yearning.
It’s only when my skirt is around my waist and Memnon’s hand falls to my inner thigh that I gasp.
“Has our time apart made you shy, my queen?”
His other hand falls against my other inner thigh, and he spreads them, almost obscenely. Only then does he tear his gaze from my face. His eyes seem to feast on my exposed flesh.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Memnon.”
I’m mortified; I’m turned on. I don’t know what to do, but I’m pretty sure I’m too curious for this to stop.
Memnon flashes me another wolfish grin. “Say my name again like that, little witch.” His eyes flick back to mine. “I like hearing your voice tremble.”
I swallow, and he must notice the action, because his attention dips to my throat.
“Memnon,” I repeat, and it sounds like a plea. For what, I’m not entirely sure.
He tightens his hands on my thighs. “Good, love,” he praises me. “Very good.”
The man leans toward my body again, as though he means to kiss me. This time, however, his mouth is headed for a very different set of lips.
I only have a moment to be alarmed.
“Memn—” I gasp as his mouth kisses my core, his lips hot against my sensitive flesh.
My hands find his head, my fingers threading through his coarse black hair. I try to push his face away even as I moan.
This should be illegal, it feels so good. I don’t understand why exactly this is happening, and I think I should stop it, even though I don’t want to stop it.
My head is a mess.
I try to push him away again, and Memnon does stop kissing me—but only so he can laugh lightly against me, his breath hot on my flesh.
“Turning away my kisses, wife?” he says. “How very unlike you.”
My chest is rising and falling as I stare down my body at him. “I’m not…” I mean to say, I’m not your wife. But my body is aching, and there’s still that confusion, like maybe I am? That can’t be right though, can it?
So, instead, I say, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I have missed you, and I want to reacquaint myself. Do you truly want me to stop?”
In the wake of his words, a silence stretches. I gaze at him, the firelight making that scar on his face particularly apparent.
Before I can help myself, I give my head a soft shake.
“Good, Roxi,” he praises again.
I tense at the name he uses. It’s not mine. Is it?
When I feel the lush press of his lips on my core once more, I stop thinking about other people’s names and Memnon’s motives and every other thing tugging at my mind. I stop thinking about everything except how goddess-damned good this feels.
Memnon’s hands move from my inner thighs, sliding under my legs so he can cradle me by my pelvis.
I thread my fingers into his hair once more, moaning at the sensations he’s awakening within me.
Memnon’s kisses turn carnal, his mouth moving around my opening. And then he slips his tongue inside me.
I cry out, writhing beneath him.
Memnon makes a noise low in his throat as he tightens his hold on me. “You taste so fucking good, little witch. Never want to leave.”
“Never, ever have to,” I breathe, my words half nonsensical.
He eats me out with unrestrained ferocity, the muscles of his arms bunching and his tattoos rippling as he cups me by the ass. I wantonly grind against his face, and he makes an approving noise, like he really fucking enjoys how dirty I’m being.
My breath comes in shallow pants, and I’m climbing and climbing and—