The pale wrists, the still air, the softest skin under velour, arousal that seems to spill out her eyes and down the occupied throat. Horselord is incriminated by the hammer in his chest. White skies, cut to blind, had but laid on noble lips the golden gleam of spring. He pours over her with pleasure, a new one in each fondle.

“Let that be my worry.”

Her kiss is to soothe. But if he relishes the gust of honesty that binds them tighter each time they speak in ways free of caste, it is also because he enjoys rekindling the darker embers of corruption. It casts a glow on the part of him which prefers shadow.

Yué will not endanger him. Batu offers no comparable promise, pushing her down into the grass now. He stands over her, jaw split, eyes meeting imperial lilac. At length, they rest here.

Then slip down the pointed nose to balance on the end of wet lips, stroking through her chest, and over each row of sweetened peaks, dropping last to the velveted warmth guarded by sinuous joining of inner thigh.

“Order me.”

To stay. To go.