I lick my lips as I scan her body. She’s wearing a light robe over what I hope is nothing. Would that be too much to ask? Is that something I should even be wishing for?

“I want to feel . . .” Gods, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I just tell her what I want? I never have trouble just coming out and saying it.

“I want to see what’s under there,” I finally say, and her eyes light up.

She looks down at herself, touching the collar and sliding her fingers along the incredibly soft silk. But I doubt it’s as soft as her skin.

“Oh, you mean this?” she asks as she plucks at the tie that circles her waist, giving me a coy smile.

“That’s probably inappropriate,” I say.

“Is it? Why?”

“Fuck. I don’t know,” I say. “I’m trying to be responsible or something.”

She grins. “Even the most responsible kings are allowed a little indulgence.”

“I’m not a king,” I remind her.

“No, but you’re carrying the burdens of one.”

Good point. She pulls on the ribbon holding her robe together, and for a brief, sparkly moment, I’m the happiest Fae in all of Ouranos.

It turns out she is wearing something underneath, but the pinch of my disappointment isn’t too sharp because the nearly translucent scraps of underwear are the next-best thing. As I imagine what they’re concealing, I decide this might be even better.

She stands up from the divan, and I drink her in, noting the way the sheer fabric reveals her tight pink nipples and the smoky darkness between her thighs.

She allows me a moment to enjoy the sight—she knows exactly what she’s doing—before she places a hand on each side of my head and brackets my knees. The position gives me an eyeful of every soft curve and line, the lushness of her hips and her breasts, and I want to sink my teeth into her soft, creamy flesh.

“How’s this?” she asks. “Does this help?”

“A little,” I say with a sly smile.

I feel a fuckton better, but I want more.

“Oh?” she asks, then plants one knee on the cushion next to my hip and then her other before she hovers just above me, maintaining a sliver of space between us. The heat of her pussy immediately filters through the fabric of my pants, where my cock is already hard.

“How about this?”

“This is . . . good,” I say.

“What else do you want? What else would ease this stress, Gabriel?”

“I want to touch you.”

She looks at my hands sitting obediently on the cushions, and laughs. This woman is pure sin and seduction. Even her laugh shoots straight to my stomach, stirring up wells of emotion I thought were long dead and buried.

“Then touch me,” she coos. “Wherever you like.”