"Who do you think you are to give orders to me?"
The Queen's reply rolled out in an estranged, glacial voice, yet some undercurrent of velvet still coiled inside it.
Dax shook his head, anchoring himself with his palms against the bed, still sitting upright.
"I'm not giving orders," he murmured, leaning closer, the heat of her body a palpable force. His hand, smooth and desperate, trailed up the bare thigh of the leg she had knelt astride him.
"I just want to have you… badly, but my way."
The Queen stiffened; the sensation of that touch lanced through her with a new, disquieting intimacy. Dax leaned farther, his mouth brushing the hollow of her neck.
His kiss was soft and deliberate, it wasn't the impatient grab of a supplicant or the reverent, fearful caress of a subject. It was knowing. It seared through the thin linen of her wrap, branding her skin, and it made her arch with a low moan she hadn't planned to give.
"All right," she exhaled, voice splintering into a moan.
