“If that is your challenge,” he said, “I accept.”

She deliberately moved through him. “Enough. We’ll speak of other things. We should—”

“Get on the bed.”

Turning to face him, she raised her brows. “What?”

“I said”—he drew off his coat and tossed it to the floor—“get on the bed.”

For a moment, she did not move. Instinct and self-preservation made her want to disobey his direct command. She bent her will to no one.

They stared at one another. She felt the tug and pull between them, the continuous will and desire. Neither of them obeyed readily or ceded control.

Yet she would do this for him now. He would be hers to command another time.

With deliberate concentration, she made herself sit on the bed.

“Lie down.” His throat was revealed as his neckcloth joined the coat upon the floor. The angry line of his scar ran beside the fast beat of his pulse.

Using more concentration, she stretched out on the bed. It felt odd, mimicking of a quotidian action. How long had it been since she had lain upon a bed—both for sleep and for sex? Her memories were both too vivid and shrouded in lost time.

His gaze still holding hers, Bram pulled off his boots. The movement tugged his fine shirt tight along his shoulders, his arms, the supple doeskin of his breeches snug along his thighs and the thick outline of his arousal.

He prowled to the bed, then stretched out long beside her. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked with his weight. But they held.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he stared down at her. “Take off your tunic.”

She did not move, another instinctive fighting of command. Yet deliberate acquiescence took nothing from her. She was unbroken, even in obedience.

She worked the clasps at her shoulders. Yet they grasped at nothing. The tunic was just as formless as she, and part of her, as well. “I can’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s not where I would start. No,” he murmured, half to himself, “the first thing I would do is take those ornaments from your hair. I’d unpin them, and then I’d coil a lock of your hair around my finger. It must feel like coarse silk, your hair. Heavy, soft. And it has a fragrance. Spice and temple smoke. I’d breathe that in, touching only your hair, watching it move as it falls over your shoulders.”

“I used to scent my bathwater with cassia,” she whispered.

A corner of his mouth tilted. “Ah, I was right. Spice. But I’d touch your hair for only so long before I’d need to feel your skin. Here, and here.” He moved his finger to right beneath her ear, at the juncture of her neck, then down her throat to tarry at the hollow between her collarbones. “Like velvet, your skin, and warm.”

She could not feel his touch, yet his words stroked her, drawing forth silken ribbons of sensation. It stunned her. She could not feel, and yet she did.

“I’d feel the beat of your heart,” he said, relentless. “You’d respond to me. That wouldn’t be enough, though. I’d want your mouth. To feel it against mine. To taste you. I’d start slowly, just little sips, the brush of my mouth against yours. How silky your lips are, so full and ripe. Your lips are made for kissing—did you know? You might think they were for shaping the words for spells, or issuing commands to your trembling underlings, and they do those things very well, but their true purpose is in kissing me. I’d show you that. I’d kiss you deeper. You’d taste of spice, too.” He licked his lips and gave a small hum of pleasure.

By the gods, she could almost feel his kiss.

“There was a time when I loved nothing more than kissing,” he continued, almost conversational but for the depth of his voice and the blue fire in his eyes. “Could do it for hours, and be satisfied. Perhaps I’ll do that with you. Kiss you until you melt in my mouth and I drink you in.” His nostrils flared. “Another time. This kiss is a prelude. I’d take my lips from yours and then I’d run them down your neck. I’d bite you there, too. My teeth just here.” He circled the convergence of her neck and shoulder. “Hard enough to leave a mark, so anyone who saw you would know exactly what happened. They’d know that I bit you like a wolf claiming his mate. The mighty priestess marked. By me.”

An involuntary moan crept up her throat. She could well imagine it—the gleaming flare of pleasure and pain, his hot breath upon her, the red indentations left by his teeth. His audacious, animalistic marking.

“What if I threatened to turn you into an actual wolf?” she breathed. “Transform you into a beast? Would you be so impudent?”

He grinned savagely. “I’d bite you harder. Until you give in.”

“I never submit.”

“Then this will be a delightful challenge. For, you see, as I’m biting you, I’d unfasten your tunic and slide it down to your waist. Cup your bared breasts in my hands. You’ve full breasts, but my hands are large. Nothing would go unattended. I’d stroke and caress them. They’d feel like . . . like paradise. So soft. Lush.” His hands hovered over her breasts, and he stared with open need.

She arched up, even though she could not feel his palms against her.

“Your nipples would harden. I’d run the tip of my fingers back and forth over them, and you’d feel it all through your body. Then I’d take your nipples between my fingers and pinch.”

She couldn’t stop the gasp that formed on her lips. His words burned her, banishing the chill of her cold nullity.

“I’d take my fingers away and put my mouth in their place. Lick you. Have your nipple between my lips and tug. I’d make your breasts glisten from my tongue. Until you’d writhe beneath me, begging me not to stop.”

She did want him to stop. This was a torment, a tease, and could end only in frustration. Yet if he stopped, she would tear the walls down with her scream.

“The tunic would come off, all of it. I’d push it past your hips, until you’d stand completely naked, wearing only the ripe curves of your hips and the dark gloss of your maidenhair.” He moved a hand down to hover above the junction of her thighs. She instinctively widened her legs.

“We’d have a bed nearby. Not this one. A better bed, with a good, firm mattress, and silk sheets. I’d urge you back to the bed and lay you down, your hips right at the edge, your feet on the floor.”

“And where would you be?” she asked, breathless.

“Kneeling between your legs, of course. My hands would grip your thighs. They’re sleek, your thighs, and I’d feel the tension in them, the muscles beneath your skin as you’d hold yourself in readiness. Waiting. Waiting. You’d jump a little at the first touch of my breath on you. A sigh, that breath, and a breathing in. This close, I’d smell how much you want me there. I’d see it, too. That gleam of wetness. Can you picture that? Can you see how your body would demand me?”

“Yes.”

“But I’d be a hungry man, standing at the banquet. I’d not be able to wait for long before feasting. A few gentle licks at first, learning how you taste, feeling your impossible softness. You’d be so wet my face would be glistening. And you’d get even wetter. I’d suck on you, consume you. I’d thrust my tongue inside of you. God, you’d be delicious.”

He groaned. “I’d take your bud between my lips, swirl my tongue around it. Back and forth. Inside you, over you. I’d fill you with pleasure. And you’d scream when you came, your fingers in my hair, pulling me tight against you.”

She wanted to close her eyes, stop her ears, but he had her in his thrall, and she truly did writhe, gasping even though she’d no need for air.

“You’d think we were done,” he went on, inexorable, “but I’d continue. I wouldn’t stop. Not until you came so many times you’d go limp and had screamed yourself voiceless.”

The dark tapestry he wove with words ensnared her. She fell, farther, farther, tangled in fantasy, craving what he offered, needing to give him what he gave her.