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There’s a long pause, followed by the press of Memnon’s lips against my sweaty back. He trails his mouth down my spine. “Say it again,” he commands, “but this time, call me your soul mate.”

“Soul mate?” I laugh mockingly. “Right now, you’re my tormentor.”

He rises up my body and nips my ear. “I can make this so much worse,” he promises.

I don’t know what it says about me that I am tempted to challenge him again, just to see how much worse it really can be. But sensation is fading away just as rapidly as he brought it on, and I’m greedy for that orgasm he’s teased me with.

“Please, soul mate, give me an orgasm.”

He grins against my cheek and kisses me there. “See? My good, obedient wife. That wasn’t nearly so hard, was it?”

Memnon knows exactly the words to make me mutiny against him, but he also knows me well enough to anticipate my reaction because, just as I begin to turn on him, that fucking magic is back, touching me in every sensitive area I have, and I’m distracted enough by it to pause.

He strokes a hand down my spine, then begins vigorously pounding into me, our sweaty bodies slapping together with each stroke. He grabs me by the back of my neck, and something about that possessive touch causes a shiver to course through my body.

Harder he pumps, the intensity of it folding my arms. I give myself over to his control—the hold on my neck, the force of his cock against my inner walls, the caress of his magic everywhere else.

My orgasm comes as a cataclysmic wave.

“Memnon!” I cry out as it rushes through me, drowning me. That’s all there is, the force of it pushing every other thought out of the way.

Memnon groans, his grip tightening against the back of my neck, his other hand holding my hips hostage as he keeps his pace. “Gods, Roxi. Your pussy grips me so perfectly, and your orgasm…this torment is indescribable.”

“Good,” I say, my voice husky. “You deserve it.”

He laughs, though it sounds pained. His thrusts, however, have merely slowed, not stopped. My husband hasn’t had his own climax, and I know he really means to give me another.

As the final ripples of this one fade away, I drop my head a little, my body boneless from the two orgasms.

Memnon pulls out of me, but only so his magic can flip me back over. The sound that comes out of my throat is something between a sob and a laugh. It took two orgasms, but he’s gotten me plenty pliant.

He’s aware of it too, laughing a little as his hips resettle between my legs, his cock pressing against my opening.

This time, when he sinks into me, it’s slow and gentle.

Even once he begins to move, his thrusts are more languid and sensual.

Now that Memnon’s wrung two orgasms from me, some of his frantic energy has left him.

The entire tone of the evening has changed from a battle to something far more affectionate.

My husband gives me a soft smile, one that reaches his eyes, and for a moment, I would never know that he’d given up most of his conscience.

“My fierce little witch,” he says fondly. “I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing but gazing upon your face. It would sustain me for all my days.”

I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer still. He’s always been the poet. I’m the one who has trouble putting words to the unnamable emotions I feel for him. I hope he senses this.

“I love you, Memnon,” I say, one of my arms coming up so I can run my fingers through his hair. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Even now?” he asks. His thrusts have slowed and his expression is raw, full of longing and a rare flicker of self-consciousness.

I realize then that the price Memnon paid to save me weighs on him, perhaps more than it does me. And right now, he feels inadequate.

I trail my fingers over his scar, then his lips. “Even now.” My gaze rises from his mouth back to his eyes. “I will always love you and in all ways. The gods made you for me and me for you.”

I see him swallow, his expression growing serious.

“I love you,” he breathes. “With every piece of me, I do. I know my magic has corrupted my heart, but I vow to all the gods, it remains true to you and you alone.”

I give him an adoring look, and with that, he leans down and kisses me, parting my lips with his own.

His power is back on me, and I laugh against him, my fingers digging into his skin.

You don’t need to give me another orgasm , I say down our bond.

That sounds like what someone who wants to get edged would say , he replies.

I break off the kiss. “ Memnon ,” I caution.

He laughs, incandescent with joy, as his pace increases. He gazes at me worshipfully, only looking away to kiss my shoulder or my neck or breasts. Even that is done with a sort of reverence that makes my heart ache in the sweetest of ways.

After two orgasms, I don’t think simple affection will be enough to send me spiraling a third time, but to my surprise, I can feel that familiar, throbbing sensation coiling within me, tighter and tighter with each of his thrusts.

It’s helped along by Memnon’s magic, but mostly it’s this euphoric connection I’m sharing with him.

“Gods, you are beautiful,” he says. “Give me your last orgasm, my queen.”

His words are accompanied by deeper thrusts and more power caressing my skin, and all at once, I come undone .

I cry out, gripping Memnon tighter as that third damnable orgasm rips through me.

He laughs, then groans. And then he’s coming too, his cock thickening with his release, his thrusts growing erratic with it. I feel an echo of his orgasm rock though me, extending my own.

It seems to last forever, but when it finally abates, Memnon pulls out and gathers me to him, throwing a leg over my own.

He presses a kiss to my temple, and for the first time in a while, everything in the world feels right. I fall asleep like that, locked in his arms, hopeful that from this point on, things might actually get better.

But hope…it really is a fickle fucking god.