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So I close my eyes and let myself relax.

Nero must sense the shift in the room because he hops off the bed then. Several seconds later, I hear the click of his claws against the windowsill, followed by the rustle of the oak tree outside as my familiar flees the current situation. And to think that only a short while ago Nero scoffed at the thought of my bringing boys over. I’d say the joke’s on him, except I’m the one who’s half dead yet still enjoying the touch of my enemy.

So the joke is most definitely on me.

Memnon’s hand continues to move over me, skimming along my back, and it feels so damn good, it should be illegal. Up and down, up and down. The longer it goes, the more restless I get.

Not enough.

“More,” I plead so softly, I’m not sure he can hear me. The truth is that I’m not at all confident in making demands of him. Not after everything he’s already done for me tonight.

His hand stills, and there’s a long pause.

“What was that?” he says.

I’m not going to say it again. I’m not—

“More,” I say again, louder.

After a moment, Memnon’s hand moves again. “More what?” he says, and now I swear there’s a wicked edge to his words, as though he’s toying with me. But I can’t be sure.

I shift under his hand, my skin so sensitive. “I—I don’t know,” I admit, my eyes still closed.

I feel the brush of his lips against my ear. “You should never ask me for things you do not mean, Empress,” he says, his voice pitched low. “But I think youdoknow what you want more of. And I think it frightens you.”

I swallow, goose bumps breaking out along my flesh.

A second passes. Then two, then three.

“Do you still want more?” Memnon breathes against me.

I don’t even bother lying to myself. “Yes.”

Memnon doesn’t respond, but several seconds later, the bed dips, and I feel his powerful thighs on either side of my own.

His hands return to my back, kneading my muscles. It feels erotic, even though it shouldn’t. It’s just a back massage.

There is no reason why I should be getting turned on by this. But moldy fucking toadstools, I am getting turned on. There’s an ache between my legs. And it’s growing and growing.

“Next time,est amage, I will make you tell me what you want—”

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.