Bewitched

A moan slips out of me. I don’t mean for it to escape, but there it is.

Behind me, Memnon pauses.

“Then again,” he says, “that works too.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks, but I refuse to be embarrassed.

I begin to flip over, and Memnon lifts himself a little so I can finish turning onto my back. I stare up at the ancient king.

From this position he looks impossibly big, his shoulders massive, his torso made from muscle and sinew alone. And that wicked face, with his sharp cheekbones and gleaming eyes.

I draw in a shaky breath. “You want to know what I want?”

What’s one more bad decision?

I sit up, hook an arm around his neck, and pull Memnon to me, and then I kiss him.

He tastes like sin and nostalgia. I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him down as I fall back against my bed.

With a groan he sinks onto me, his mouth searing against mine. I’ve kissed him more than once, and yet this feels like the first true one we’ve had. His tongue strokes mine, and I remember all over again how much more electric everything is with this sorcerer.

I grind against him, feeling his rigid length trapped between us. He moves against me, and I gasp at the contact, every nerve awakening.

Goddess, how had I not noticed before that this man is pure, unadulterated sex? The muscles, the tattoos, the sheer coiled ferocity that is so tightly restrained.

This is a man who fucks. Hard.

And I am here for it.

Unfortunately, the moment I have the thought, Memnon breaks off the kiss.

His smoky-amber eyes are lust drunk as they stare down at me, and his breathing is ragged. He’s looking at my mouth like he’s about to devour me whole, and I am 100 percent on board with the prospect.

He blinks a few times, then extricates himself from my body.

I want to weep at the loss of his weight and heat. And his mouth. Especially his mouth. I want to kiss him until the sun rises.

“Sleep, my queen. You used a lot of magic and lost a lot of blood,” he says, getting off the bed. “You need sleep, not…” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Not anything else,” he finishes adamantly.

Memnon reaches for the blankets beneath me and tugs them out from under my body.

I catch his wrist. “Where are you going?” I hate that I sound desperate. I hate that this man has gone from my stalker to my savior. But the truth is this house doesn’t feel safe—not since I realized there’s a persecution tu

Memnon’s expression turns fierce, even while his eyes soften. “Nowhere,” he vows. “I will stay here, in this room, watching over you and keeping you safe until you wake.”

I don’t let go of his wrist. I want him in this bed next to me. I’m positive that’s the only way I’m going to sleep at all, despite my exhaustion.

Memnon must see it in my eyes.

“Don’t ask me for things you do not mean,” he warns me again.

I do mean what I’m thinking. That’s the real problem. My intuition is telling me that this violent, wicked man is safe, and I’m too tired to disagree.

“Stay with me,” I say, tugging him closer.

Memnon takes the hand holding his wrist into his own hands, and he presses a kiss to my knuckles, closing his eyes. He looks like he’s fighting himself on something, though I ca

After a moment, he lays my hand on the bed, then presses his palm to my head.

“Sleep,” he says.

I feel the gentle brush of Memnon’s magic and then nothing else.

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