The imperial bedchamber was bathed in the dying light of twilight, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the prying eyes of the capital. Empress Elizabeth Valewind sat alone on the edge of the vast four-poster bed, the silk sheets still pristine and cold beneath her.
She wore only a thin shift of crimson silk that clung to her curves like a lover's whisper, the fabric so sheer it hid nothing of the swell of her full breasts or the dark peaks of her nipples straining against it.
Her fingers trembled as they traced the path his touch had taken. First, her collarbone—where Lucifer's knuckles had brushed accidentally-on-purpose when he'd passed her the wine goblet.
A spark had ignited there, hot and forbidden, shooting straight to her core. Then her throat, where his breath had lingered when he'd leaned close during their endless negotiations, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her skin.
