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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 ano,” 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’manythingbut 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.

Memnondoesstill smell like himself in the most innate way. And it’s that smell that makes me lean my head against him.