A low-backed stuffed chair drifted across the floor, then turned until it faced her freestanding mirror.

“Sit down,” Daemon said.

She could almost feel his voice on her skin, as if it were some intoxicating lotion he was pouring over her. She couldn’t defy it, couldn’t disobey that voice. It scared her a little that she couldn’t rouse herself enough to make her own demands. Not demands. Requests. She would never make demands. Not with him.

As she moved to obey, he said, “Not in the seat. On the back of the chair.”

Being low enough and wide enough, she often perched on the back of that chair, but now she felt self-conscious as she climbed into position and saw her reflection in the mirror.

Daemon stepped up behind her. “What do you see?”

She gave him a coy smile. “I see my lover.”

“And I see a woman so obessed with a man she tried to harm a Queen.”

Her pleasure at having him in her bedroom vanished. “Is that why you’re here? Because of stupid Jaenelle?”

For a moment, his face became a cold mask carved out of fine wood. Then he smiled. “You’re right, darling. Jaenelle has no place in this room. This is between you and me.”

His hands caressed her arms beneath her nightgown. He wasn’t actually touching her—he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in the mirror any more than she could stop watching him—but she felt his hands caressing her arms. Then another pair of hands caressed her breasts—and another pair lightly stroked the insides of her thighs.

“How—” she gasped. But she couldn’t form the question because a pair of lips brushed over hers. Two mouths closed over her nipples, licking and suckling. And another mouth . . .

Moaning, she arched her back and rested her head on his shoulder. This was so delicious, she never wanted it to stop, never wanted it to end.

Gently, relentlessly, those hands caressed her, those mouths licked and suckled . . . until the pleasure became an unbearable craving for his real hands, his real mouth.

“Touch me,” she gasped, ripping open the nightgown to reveal her breasts. “I need you to touch me.”

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

It didn’t stop, didn’t end. The pleasure went on and on until she began weeping from the need for release.

“Daemon . . . please.”

His right hand curled around her neck, and the warmth of that hand was ten times better than the feel of those phantom hands and mouths.

Feeling intensified until the pleasure became excruciating. As she finally crested, she felt a sharp prick in her neck, which somehow only added to her climax. The fierce release gradually eased to warm waves of pleasure, and finally faded to a delicious glow.

Still watching her, Daemon stepped away from the chair.