Elowen's hands slid up his arms, mapping out the firmness of his biceps, the sinew beneath his skin. She reveled in the contrast between her own delicate, slightly cool fingers and the warmth of his muscles. All the while, their tongues pressed and receded in a slow, sensuous dance, each glide a question answered by a gentle sigh or an urgent shift in posture.
When she ventured her tongue to brush against his, a soft moan escaped her—an unconscious sound of pleasure and relief. It felt as though she were speaking a language of pure sensation, no words, no protocols. Mikhailis answered with a quiet groan, gathering her up with an intensity that verged on desperation. For a second, she remembered the countless evenings she'd spent addressing dignitaries, parsing through negotiations, wearing the unassailable mask of the monarchy. That mask was gone now, replaced by the flush of longing coloring her cheeks.
