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He carries on and on. Every time I’m on the verge of going over the edge, he pulls back, just for a moment, just long enough for me to regain some vestige of my composure, then he starts up again.

“Gabriel, please.” I’m begging, and I don’t care.Finish me or stop, I want to add, but I can’t form a sentence that coherent.

Eventually, he glances up at me. “Tell me you want me,” he says.

“I want you, Gabriel,” I manage to choke out. He lowers his head, and with a few expert movements, finally deigns to bring me over the edge. He continues until the tremors fade away.

“May I?” he asks, and there’s no question about what he means.

“I’m not sure when you got so polite,” I reply, sighing out the words with my eyes closed. “But yes. Of course. God help me, but I want you.”

He grabs a condom from the bedside drawer, lifts himself up, slides forward, and slips inside me. All those sounds of my pleasure must have been enough foreplay for him. Or perhaps, knowing him, it’s the way I offered myself up, implicitly accepted I was his.

I call his name again once he’s inside me. At first, he doesn’t move, just presses himself against me and kisses me on the lips. Then he begins to rock, grinding himself against me.

“Dammit, Sadie,” he cries out, his pleasure seemingly building in parallel with mine.

If I had any connection to the magic in the air, I could tell whether or not he was using his powers to enhance the experience. The bracelets cut me off from that knowledge and from the ability to do anything about it either way, but I don’t care.

There’s a part of me that would have liked to have lain there, utterly passive, superciliously letting him take his pleasure and acting like he had no effect on me. Instead, I push up against him, and before I know it, I’m coming again.

He gives me a moment to revel in the sensation and another moment for him to absorb it, then he comes in turn.

We call out each other’s names in sync then both fall utterly silent.

I’ve had a lot of technically good sex in my life. I’ve had a fair amount of close, intimate moments with people I’ve cared about. Nothing has ever come close to this. Sleeping with my enemy has satisfied me in a way that no sex with anonymous pretty boys or men I’ve liked and respected has ever managed. I’d think he’d got one over on me, were it not for the fact that his sleepy eyes show the same shock and awe. He has a different date every night; I’ve seen that with my own eyes. But I can tell none of them have ever got under his skin and inside his head like this.

He rolls onto his back and pulls me to him. I ought to get up and get out. File this under unexpected surprises and get on with my life. Instead, I rest my head on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around me, drawing me into him. I stroke his chest with one hand and play with the rose-gold, emerald-studded ring dangling from the chain on his neck with the other.

I drift into a trance-like state I’m surprised I’m able to reach through the bracelets. The way my mind works after really good sex is much the same way it works after a really deep meditation. Thoughts collide and coalesce. Half-forgotten memories mingle with suppressed hopes and dreams. Today, in particular, it’s like my subconscious brain is trying to get a message to me, but it can’t quite break through. I try to cling to the sensation, to the swirling thoughts, but before I can form them into something remotely comprehensible, I fall asleep.

I’m not sure how much later it is when I wake up. The room has turned dark and full of shadows, though there’s just enough light remaining for me to see Gabriel’s perfect, sleeping face. What the hell have I done? I thought I was walking into physical danger, but it turned out Gabriel-fucking-Thornber was far too much of a gentleman for that. Instead, I’ve thrown myself into the worst emotional danger I could imagine.

My slight movements are enough to wake him up. “Sadie,” he whispers, drawing me back towards him.

I sigh, and wriggle against the bed. The temptation to stay put is almost unbearable, but I force myself into a sitting position.

“I need to go,” I say.

“For the last time, I’m not attempting to hold you prisoner. But stay. We can sleep. We can have sex again. We can get up and have dinner or re-join the party that’s no doubt still going on downstairs. Or we can just sit and talk.”

“I came here to get you out of my head. I don’t think this helped, but I’m not going to make things any worse. We’re on different sides, and you have no claim over me anymore.”

“Give me your hands.”

I hold them out, unsure of Gabriel’s intention. All he does is slip the bracelets off me, then kiss the back of each hand in turn.

I’d almost got accustomed to the magic being out of my reach, but now it rushes back, like someone unmuting a film. I could strike him down, and he must be aware of that. Is this trust or a test?

I stand up, unashamedly naked, and click my fingers to dress myself. Magic makes everything so much easier.

“Shall I drive you home?”

“I’m fine.” If I don’t get out of there in the next few moments, I never will. Or at least, I’ll never leave with my heart intact.

“Let me at least walk you downstairs then. We don’t want any of my acolytes getting the wrong idea.”

It’s not clear quite what “the wrong idea” would encompass in this scenario, but I nod. As far as anyone in the house is concerned, I’m an unknown interloper at best, an active enemy at worst. Free of the bracelets, I can defend myself against any attack, as long as it’s not coming from Gabriel himself, but neither sustaining minor injuries nor blowing Gabriel’s associates in two is the vibe I’m going for.