Her plump lips moved with fervor, molding against mine with an urgency that bordered on desperation—but it was not weakness. It was intensity. Fire meeting fire. Her hands explored my chest now, palms flat against the firm line of muscle as if trying to memorize the shape of me, to imprint me upon her skin.
I cupped her cheek, the soft curve of her jaw warm beneath my palm, and deepened the kiss. Her scent enveloped me—jasmine, incense, sun-warmed linen and the faintest trace of myrrh. It was intoxicating. Divine.
Cleopatra's nails curled into my shirt like claws sheathed in velvet, her grip trembling with a tension that lived halfway between resistance and surrender. Her lips, warm and impossibly soft, parted the moment mine met them, and my tongue slid into her mouth like silk threading through flame. She gasped faintly at the intrusion, her breath sweet with wine and spices, the taste of ancient temptation on her tongue.
