Текст книги "Bespelled"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER 28

My soul mate drives up on a gleaming motorcycle, his dark hair billowing in the wind, no helmet in sight.

Hell’s bells.

“What is that?” I ask from the pavement in front of my residence hall, my bags at my feet.

He raises an eyebrow, then glances at the motorcycle between his legs before looking back at me again. “You’re the modern woman. I imagine you already know.”

“You want me to ride on that thing?” The roads around here are winding, mountainous, and often pitted. Many lack guardrails, and the drops from them can be steep. The thought of taking those turns on a motorcycle sends a shiver down my spine.

Memnon swings himself off his seat. “You sound mighty judgmental for a woman who has no vehicle.”

“Considering you stole yours, I think I have a right to be.”

“You scared, little witch?” Memnon asks, eyeing me.

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

A sinful smile blooms across his face. “You are.”

Maybe it’s his tall stature. Maybe it’s the outfit, a simple black shirt and black fatigues tucked into combat boots, which seems to display every damnably beautiful inch of him and showcase his dangerous nature. Or maybe it’s his face, with his annoyingly high cheekbones and those wicked lips. But he takes my breath away. He looks like something mythical and forgotten.

He steps in close. “I’ll keep you safe, Selene,” he says roughly. “You know that.”

I think I’ve stepped closer to him, lured in by that magnetic pull he has.

His gaze draws up to my residence hall. “Or we could stay here, maybe have a little dinner. You could introduce me to your coven sisters, and I could read their minds one by one.” His expression grows cold, cruel. “It could be a game—see how many witches survive the evening.”

Memnon looks half-convinced of his own plan when he steps past me and starts up the walkway to my house.

Shit—he isn’t serious, is he?

I rush after him. “Wait. Wait a goddess-damned minute,” I say, grabbing him by the wrist. “So long as you have a helmet for me, I’ll ride on your death machine.”

It does, after all, beat staying here among my enemies.

The drive is terrifying.

Memnon lives a few miles south of the coven, and the main road from Henbane to his house is especially winding.

Despite Memnon’s magic, which wraps around our waists and holds me in place, I cling to Memnon like my life depends on it. Down our bond, I can feel his amusement and the glow of his affection.

I’m glad he’s enjoying this. That makes one of us.

When we arrive at Memnon’s house, I nearly weep with relief. My limbs feel boneless from tensing for so long.

I slide off the motorcycle and remove the helmet Memnon did end up having with him.

Above the tree line, the sun is setting, but it’s not the sky that takes my breath away. Outside the sorcerer’s house, dozens of lanterns float above us, the flickering flames within them giving the place a ghoulish, magical ambiance.

Using a pinch of magic, Memnon grabs my bags from the tiny storage compartment on his stolen death bike⁠—

Steel horse, he corrects me.

–and he comes up to my side.

“Did you do this for me?” I ask, pointing to the lanterns.

His eyes flick over my face, then he nods.

“Why?” I ask.

“I wanted to bring a little of the magic of your coven here,” he admits.

I frown as my heart skips a little.

Movement at the corner of my eye has me tearing my attention away from the house.

Relief washes over me when I see my familiar loping toward us. I get down on one knee and catch Nero in my arms, the weight of him nearly bowling me backward.

“I missed you,” I whisper, holding him tightly as he rubs his head against the side of mine.

It’s unnatural to be so far from my familiar. All day, there was this persistent tug at the back of my mind, like I forgot an important memory. I’ve been so used to that feeling that I didn’t realize until now that it was because Nero and I were parted.

“I have something for you,” I say.

My panther watches me, probably hopeful it’s food. Instead, I pull out the cord.

“This is warded to protect you so you’ll be safe while you’re out hunting.” Honestly, I should’ve done this much sooner.

Nero’s ears flick back, and I think…I think he’s insulted.

“It isn’t a collar. It’s a protective amulet.”

He lets out a small, displeased sound.

Grumpy bastard.

“It’s for your safety,” I say.

Memnon steps up behind me. “Wear it for Selene’s sake, and I will give you a fresh cut of venison as soon as we get inside.”

Nero’s tail twitches with irritation, but he lowers his head and allows me to tie the protective amulet around his neck.

I give Memnon a look over my shoulder, partly annoyed but mostly grateful that his bribe worked.

“This is only a temporary solution,” I promise.

As soon as it’s secured, Nero heads toward the house, tail still twitching with his agitation.

He’ll get over it. Memnon says down our bond. Now, come, est amage. Let’s get you settled.

My eyebrows lift when I catch my first glimpse inside Memnon’s house. Clusters of pillar candles line every available surface—shelves, side tables, even the ground in some locations—their wax dripping all over the place.

Fifty dollars says I’m going to accidentally knock one of them over and start another fire in this house.

There’s a whisper-soft sound that accompanies hundreds of tiny flames burning through wicks, and it draws my magic up to the surface of my skin. I reach out as I pass a cluster of candles, running my fingers through the flames.

The front door clicks closed behind me, and I hear Memnon set down my bags. When I glance back at him, he’s watching me carefully; his head is tilted just a little, gauging my reaction.

“Are these more witchy details for me to appreciate?” I ask.

“No,” he says, coming to me. He moves to my front and continues to peer at my face, his smoky amber eyes shining in the dim light. “I simply wanted to remember the way firelight danced on your face.”

He continues to gaze at me, and his expression makes my heart skip. He used to look at me like this all the time. I didn’t know it was something I missed until this very moment. Unthinkingly, I take a step toward him, my eyes dropping to his lips.

What would happen if I decided we could be something other than enemies—or even something besides allies with benefits? What if I gave in to my deepest hidden wants the way witches are encouraged to do?

The thought is too tantalizing to pass up, especially when Memnon is right here, waiting for me to do something.

Very carefully, very deliberately, I wrap my hand around his neck, drawing his face down to mine. His eyes burn bright as I lean in and press a kiss to his lips, enjoying a brief taste of him.

His hands move to my arms, but already I’m slipping out of his reach.

I’m playing a dangerous game with this man. I know it, and I can see evidence of it—there’s a calculating edge to my soul mate’s expression, one that makes my pulse thrill. He’s looking at me like he’s sighted prey.

Thanks to the forged bond between us, I’m also completely in control. One word from me and I can change the entire flow of this evening.

I could get drunk on this sort of power. And I just might.

While Memnon makes good on his promise to Nero and gets the panther his slab of meat, I quickly send my mom my nightly proof-of-life text, this time along with a photo of me blowing her a kiss. Then I wander into the house’s dining room. The sight before me stops me in my tracks.

The long, carved oak table in front of me is laden with platters of food. Grapes spill from bowls, cheeses sit next to thickly cut slices of bread, and a whole-ass roasted chicken glistens on a platter.

A thin, glittering plume of Memnon’s magic covers the space. I run my hand through the magic, watching with no little awe as it shifts, moving toward me as though I’m a lodestone.

I’ve seen this spell many times before—it’s a laughably mundane one. A spell for freshness—to keep meat warm, bread soft and moist, produce crisp, and dairy from souring.

Memnon enters the room then, moving to the other side of the table where he tracks my movements over more candlelight.

As I play with his magic, the spell dissipates, my touch enough to break it. Between the flickering candlelight, the deep shadows, and the heavily laden table, I’m reminded of that final dinner, right before we were betrayed.

But I cannot think of it without remembering how it ended. I can still hear the pounding footsteps of the Roman soldiers closing in on me that night. I can still see the bloody bodies of Memnon’s mother and sister. Their bones have been ground to dust, their lives just a ghost of a memory. Civilizations have come and gone, and the world has forgotten.

All that’s left is us. Just us.

I push away the bleak thought.

“This looks like it was a lot of work,” I say softly.

“It isn’t work if it gives you pleasure,” Memnon replies. There it is, my soul mate’s resurrected hobby. It makes me strangely happy to know he’s found it again.

I pull out the chair in front of me and sit down, noting the alcohol he’s already poured for me. “Plying me with wine, est xsaya?” I tease. His eyes flash at the title. “And when I’m not legally old enough to drink? Very bold of you.”

Memnon arches a brow, taking a seat across from me. “You were drinking spiced wine since you were a child.”

That’s Roxilana he’s referring to.

“But if you wish to refrain…” He lifts a shoulder.

I take the wineglass and drink a swallow. My eyebrows rise at the taste. It’s thinner than what I’m used to and flavored with honey and cinnamon.

Once more, the past overcomes me. I can feel the thick press of summer air, the sharp stink of the Roman streets, the desperate dream to leave. Then campfires and creaking wooden wagons and sweaty bodies that smell like horsehair and wild grass. The past is all right there, so close I swear I could step into it.

But as quickly as the memories come, they’re gone again, leaving only an ache in their wake.

The skin around Memnon’s eyes crinkles with mirth. “The flavor is not quite as…pungent as it once was⁠—”

I laugh, because fuck, that’s right. Some of the wines we once drank had additives like pepper and coriander—even chalk and sea water—in them. The past was wild, man.

“Do you miss it?” Memnon asks after a moment, and he must be reading my thoughts.

Right now?

“Maybe a little,” I admit. “But the past is gone,” I add.

“Not for us,” Memnon says, reverting to Sarmatian. “The past is alive in us. You and I are eternal, my queen.”

I stare at him, caught in his gaze. I don’t want to keep looking at him—I feel like he can see too much—but I can’t seem to look away either.

It begins to rain, the sound pitter-pattering on the tarp above the exposed wood ceiling.

My eyes move up to it.

“You might get wet tonight, est amage, but not from the rain.”

My gaze snaps back to Memnon, and my core tightens. I have a retort already loaded on my tongue, but just as soon as it comes to me, I swallow it back down.

I don’t want to flirt or tease or bicker with Memnon. I don’t want to be playful at all right now. I’m feeling nostalgic and bittersweet in this room where the past is still alive.

A phone vibrates, pulling me out of the moment. I think it’s mine, but then Memnon is pulling his own device out of his pocket. He glances at the number, then tucks it back away without answering.

“Who’s calling you?” I ask, curiously. I feel some unnameable emotion at the idea of Memnon having a whole other side of his life that I’m not privy to.

“You could be privy to it,” he responds.

“Get out of my head.”

“I would follow your orders if I could, Empress, but it’s you, not me, who’s broadcasting those pretty thoughts. As for the call,” he continues, “that’s the mage I work for.”

The one who believes he’s bonded Memnon to him.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re not going to answer?”

“If I do, he’ll likely give me a command that will take me from you, and, est amage, I don’t want that.”

I’m caught in his gaze again, and we’re in Rome, we’re on the plains of the Pontic steppe, we’re in Bosporus. It all comes rushing back—the feeling that I’m on some precipice, waiting to jump. Waiting to fall.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“You know what I want,” he challenges. “It’s the one thing I’ve wanted since I first woke.”

Me, I think he means.

Yet he’s just sitting there, waiting. As though I’m supposed to come to him.

I feel a rising restlessness in me.

You could, a small voice inside me says. You could do anything you want. Anything at all. You could even give in to those deep, hidden desires. You’re in control.

My magic snaps out of me, half in agitation, half in eagerness, blowing out all the candles and leaving us in darkness. I didn’t consciously choose to extinguish the last of the light, yet once it’s gone, I don’t try to relight the candles. Instead, I flick my wrist, and platters careen into each other as my power sweeps them away from the middle of the table.

In the darkness, I stand, then I step onto the table. I don’t entirely know what I’m doing, but my magic is rushing through my veins, and my bond is beckoning me closer. The wood creaks beneath my weight as I cross it. I step down, right into Memnon’s lap.

“Is this what you want?” I ask, placing my hands lightly on his shoulders.

The sorcerer’s hands come to rest on my hips. “Yes,” he breathes, his eyes glinting in the darkness. The rain patters above us, making the space feel particularly intimate. “But you don’t need to concern yourself with what I want. What do you want?”

This is a trap, one expertly set. It’s too late for me to care.

“I want you,” I whisper into the darkness.

I lean forward, and my lips meet his. The kiss I give him is rough, resentful. I don’t want to want him, but I do.

Memnon grabs a fistful of my hair, tugging on it just as roughly as he kisses me back. Then you shall have me.

Memnon’s hands return to my hips, and he stands, lifting me with him. I assume he’s going to set me on the edge of the table, but instead, he carries me out of the dining room.

The rest of the house is still illuminated by the burning candles. We pass Nero, who’s gnawing on the bone Memnon gave him with his meat, and we head toward the back of the house. As we go, my power snuffs out candles one by one, banishing the light from this house. I don’t mean to do it, but my magic is enjoying acting out tonight.

I’m too busy kissing Memnon to much care.

There are no candles in my mate’s bedroom. The only light comes from the moon and the streetlamps outside. I begrudgingly appreciate that the sorcerer didn’t assume his plan would lead back here.

I’m still kissing him when he sits down on the bed, keeping me perched in his lap. We’ve done this a thousand times before, and Memnon is usually stripping away my clothes by now and spreading my legs apart.

But not tonight.

Tonight he’s reserved, which only seems to further draw out this wild, restless aspect of my magic. Ropes of my power reach out, mostly to caress Memnon in the darkness but also to knock shit about. As my magic moves around us, it also forms a few witch orbs, the pale orange light floating up near the ceiling.

Ever since Memnon forged the bond between us, he has seemed somewhat reluctant to be with me.

The sorcerer reaches out and tucks a stray strand of my hair. Judging by the way he looks at me, I can tell he heard that last thought.

“You believe that I’ve manipulated you into everything. And I have. For weeks, I have. I don’t want you to believe that when I’m inside you, I’ve manipulated you into that as well. That’s the one line I chose to never cross, even when I was angry and wrathful toward you. And I still refuse to cross it until you are sure of me. So for now, when it comes to sex, you’ll have to lead.”

Again I feel my earlier agitation, along with my growing desire. “I could command you to lead.”

“You could. You would still be leading.”

I disentangle myself, if only to put a little distance between us. I can’t think when I’m so close to him.

I assumed this was a trap, one meant to lure me in. But maybe it’s not. Maybe the only trap is my own conflicting emotions.

I want Memnon. I have wanted him for a while. And I’m tired of fighting it, but I’m scared of setting aside my bitterness, of letting go of my animosity. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for that.

As I back away from the bed, my eyes snag on a black duffel bag with an iron chain hanging partially out of it.

Not a chain, I realize.

Manacles.

I raise an eyebrow and look at Memnon. “What are those for?” I ask.

His mouth curves into a wicked smile from where he watches me on the edge of the bed. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, est amage.”

“Have you been using them on people?” I ask, moving over to the bag and picking the manacles up.

Memnon rises from the mattress and moves to my side. “Would you like to chat about that right now, Empress? I can promise you the evening will go in a much different direction.”

Memnon is standing far too close.

I don’t know what possesses me, but I glance at his wrist, then clamp one of the cuffs over it. With a heavy click, it snaps into place.

Memnon raises an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

With a clink, I cuff his other wrist. Memnon doesn’t even bother fighting me.

“You wanted me to lead. Don’t regret it now.” I get a perverse thrill out of seeing this man’s wrists chained together.

Memnon glances down at his bound arms. “Then I am your prisoner.” When his eyes meet mine, there’s so much goddess-damned intensity in them. Intensity…and challenge. As though he doesn’t believe I’ll do anything with the power I have over him.

I grab the chain and use it to drag his upper body downward.

Once he’s close enough, I stand on my tippy-toes and brush a kiss along his lips.

I hear his deep, supremely satisfied exhale.

“You’re slippery,” I whisper against his mouth.

“Then you better keep your eyes on me,” he says.

As soon as the kiss ends, I tug on the manacles and lead the sorcerer back to his bed.

Memnon follows, playing the part of obedient prisoner. I give him a careful look, one that he returns innocently enough. I don’t buy it. Not for an instant. However, having this dangerous man cuffed before me and at my mercy emboldens me.

“Lie on the bed.”

The sorcerer gives me a long look—one I can’t quite meet—as he climbs onto the mattress. Between his searing stare and his bound hands, Memnon’s movements should be clumsy. But he moves with the same feline grace Nero does.

His bed has a beautifully carved headboard depicting flowers and animals not so different from the Sarmatian art I was used to seeing when I lived with Memnon long ago. There are open spaces between each carved animal and flower, and it sparks an idea.

I slip away to Memnon’s closet, the orbs of light trailing behind me. Inside it, I step up to his inset dresser and pull open several drawers until I find what I’m looking for. Nestled in neat rows are several rolled-up leather belts. I grab one of them and return to the bed, the soft light following after me.

Memnon waits for me, curiosity brimming in his eyes as he lounges back against his mattress. I don’t think he knows what I’m about to do.

I move over to him and straddle his torso. He barely has time to react to my sudden presence when I grasp his manacles and force his arms to lift over his head. Pressing the chain against the headboard, I slide the belt through both the metal restraints and the holes in the wooden bedframe. With a little help from my magic, I buckle the leather strap.

“You’re being awfully quiet while I work,” I say, glancing down at him.

I’d rather wait to see what you have in store for me before I start begging, he whispers in my mind.

“Begging sounds nice.”

Memnon stares at me for several beats until a slow smile spreads across his features.

“Please, don’t hurt me. I have money.” He rattles his chains a little for effect.

Is he being…playful?

I let out a disbelieving laugh. “That is your attempt at begging?” I laugh again. “You make a terrible captive.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ll find that I’m very agreeable. I’m eager to do your bidding.”

I clasp Memnon’s face in my hands, taking perverse pleasure in how his body stills beneath me. “I see what you’re doing, trying to be disarming,” I say.

“Is it working?”

My gaze drops to his lips, and after a moment, I lean in and take them.

The kiss is answer enough. The truth is, I have no defenses against playful Memnon. I barely had defenses against him when he was an asshole.

I feel him smile against me.

In response, I nip his lower lip, and the sorcerer groans into my mouth. He leans forward and the chains rattle, presumably as he tries to reach for me. He lets out a frustrated noise, and it’s my turn to smile midkiss.

I stretch my body out along his.

I like you like this, I say. All trussed up.

I move away from Memnon’s mouth and pepper kisses down his throat. I’m soon stopped by the collar of his shirt.

I place a hand to the material and whisper a spell. “With a slice and a tear, leave Memnon’s torso bare.”

The fabric beneath my hand parts from sleeve to neck and collar to hem until the shirt altogether falls away. The spell only partially rips apart Memnon’s pants and whatever lies beneath, the material shifting under my thighs as it slips off him. I can feel the hard press of his cock trapped between us, and it makes my core clench. Yet the rest of his pant legs remains intact, my spell only extending as far as the bottom of his torso.

My eyes linger on Memnon’s chest. His tattoos seem to jump out in the soft light. His dragon emblem, his hunting and battle conquests, even the marks that indicate he’s a king. I run my fingers over these beloved tattoos, nostalgia and want rising in me.

Beneath me, I sense the sorcerer notice my mood shift—he’s so fucking observant. So I duck my head and resume trailing kisses down Memnon’s torso, pausing to nip at one of his rolling pecs.

He groans again, and it’s so goddess-damned sexy.

The sheathed dagger he always has on him is now resting in the tatters of his clothes. I pause my ministrations to grab it and slide the blade out. It gleams in the light.

Even though I’m holding the weapon over him, Memnon doesn’t so much as tense. He really is a terrible captive.

“Is this where you stab me and free yourself once and for all?” he says in Sarmatian. “Because,” he continues slowly, his eyes smoldering, “I promise you, if you don’t, I will work to tie you so fucking tight to me you won’t eventually know where you end and I begin.”

“So dramatic,” I whisper. “Maybe I just want to play with your knife.”

I swivel around, repositioning myself so my back is to him. Before Memnon can continue to wonder what I’m thinking, I bring the knife down, sawing the blade through what remains of his pants.

The material makes a satisfying ripping noise.

I lean over, cutting open one entire pant leg, then the other. While I work, tendrils of my magic reach for his boots of their own accord, unlacing them, then tugging them off along with his socks underneath.

Once I cut away the last of the material, my pulse quickens. He’s completely naked, and I’m still fully dressed. The thought has barely crossed my mind when my power, again of its own accord, begins to undo the laces of my Doc Martens. It then continues up my legs, tendrils of the sunset-orange magic reaching for the buttons of my pants.

One of the first lessons witches learn about magic is that it is semi-sentient. We can control it, but it can just as easily control us. As I watch my power undo the top button of my own pants, a command I did not give it, I think that maybe tonight I’m seeing a little of that.

I swing myself off Memnon and leave the bed, as though moving might help me escape my own magic. It doesn’t.

With my back to the sorcerer, I toss Memnon’s dagger aside, the metal clattering against the floorboards as I’m helped out of my pants by my power. I’ve only just gripped the hem of my shirt when my power lifts it over my head, my hair cascading back to my shoulders. Already it’s unclasping my bra, and it helps me wiggle out of my panties. There’s nothing sexy or drawn out about any of this, yet even without my sight, I can feel Memnon’s gaze on me like a touch.

Beautiful, I hear his mind whisper.

I want to laugh. He’s smooth and self-assured while I’m tripping through the motions, trying to stay one step ahead of my magic and act like I’m still in control when I no longer feel like it. Even tying him up and stripping him naked no longer eclipses this feeling welling up in me.

I’m nervous.

I may have memories of doing this in another life, I may have even drunkenly done this with the sorcerer in this one, but this time, there’s no alcohol or espiritus to blunt my nerves.

“Selene.”

My shoulders tense at the sound of his voice, which is somehow tender and intimate and knowing. I don’t know how it’s knowing—unless he’s been eavesdropping on this entire inner dialogue.

“Come here, little mate,” Memnon says, his voice gruff. “I am tied up and yours to do with as you please.”

I draw a deep breath and turn to Memnon. It takes so much to let him look his fill at my naked body. And he does. He looks and looks, swears under his breath, and looks some more.

Eventually, his gaze moves to my face, pausing on my cheeks, where I can feel the hot rush of blood staining my skin.

“You’re embarrassed,” he says, surprised. Never mind that he’s lying naked and chained to the bed. “We’ve done this many times.”

“It’s not that,” I say as one of my orbs of light dips in close before bobbing back up above us.

What is it? he says down our bond.

But the answer is right there.

Casual intimacy is fun and easy for me. This is something else. Not even the lightly kinky aspects of it can hide the fact that this entire night, I’ve been seeing Memnon differently. I’ve pursued him not as some drunken mistake but because I wanted to touch something real and deep.

And that’s terrifying when it comes to the sorcerer. The moment Memnon’s greedy, devouring eyes recognize I’m no longer keeping it casual, he will be all in, pressing his advantage. And like he said, he’ll continue to tie himself closer and closer to me in every way that he can.

I should walk out of the room right now. There’s a couch to sleep on, and there are other unexplored rooms to this house that likely have beds. We can still keep this relationship carefully contained.

The damnable truth of it is that I want my mate. I want him so badly my skin throbs from it and my magic is acting out to make it happen.

So I return to the bed, climbing on like nothing was ever amiss. Once more, I straddle Memnon, though I’m having trouble meeting his face. My eyes would much rather take in all the lines of his tattoos.

But I do force my gaze up. “I can do anything to you, est xsaya?” I ask. It’s not really a question of whether I literally can. He’s already given me that power over him. It’s a question of whether he’s okay with it.

“Anything,” he agrees fervently. “I am yours.”

He is right there, his face so close, his heart laid bare before me.

The look has me feeling shy and skittish all over again, and only my deep-seated desire to be close to him keeps me from backing down.

You’re in control, I remind myself.

I move down his body and grasp his cock. He’s already rock-hard, and I’m intimidated all over again by how large he is, which is silly. Leaning over it, I take the head of him into my mouth.

Memnon hisses, the chains rattling as he nearly rises off the bed.

“Gods, Selene.”

I swirl my tongue over the head of him, pumping my fist up and down his shaft. The sorcerer’s muscles have gone taut with tension, and when I take him deeper, those manacles clink together again.

“Fucking witchcraft, that mouth of yours…” he mutters, making me smile around him. He groans when he feels the action. “Only do that again, my queen, if you want me to come in your mouth. I have no resistance to those smiles.”

Much as I’d enjoy bringing him to release this way, I’m not ready to be done with him yet. So I let my grin fall away, and I work him until his hips are bucking and he’s whispering praises in Sarmatian, his head flung back against the pillow.

Only then, once I’ve gotten my fill of him, do I move, releasing his shaft so that I can straddle his hips. I rise up on my knees and position his cock at my opening. The head of it skims between my folds.

Memnon groans as his eyes fix on that point of contact. His gaze rises to mine, and my earlier insecurities are gone.

This is right. Finally, it’s right.

Slowly, I sink down on him. The headboard creaks as Memnon strains to stay still, letting me control the pace.

“Intoxicating witch,” he breathes, “you’re a vision.”

As is he, bound beneath me, though I don’t say this. I’m too busy enjoying the sensation of my core stretching around him.

“Gods, yes, my queen,” he says, reverting to Sarmatian. “You take me so well.”

I feel myself tighten around him, and he hisses out a breath, his hips reflexively jerking up against mine. I moan as he buries the last of himself in me, and I’m unprepared for the overwhelming feeling of having him fully seated in me.

I lean forward, breathing through the sharp, tight sensation.

Memnon gazes down the line of his body at me. “Are you all right?” he says, concern wrinkling his brow.

Your massive dick almost killed me, but I’m fine.

I don’t mean to actually pass that thought along, but then I see his features relax a little. The corners of Memnon’s mouth quirk. Wait for your orgasm. If it doesn’t deliver you to the gods for a moment or two then, I’ll have to do it over again.

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.