I lounged on the edge of my bed, the silk sheets rumpled from our earlier exertions, watching Herick kneel before me in the flickering candlelight of my chamber.
His broad shoulders slumped in submission, sweat still glistening on his skin from the humiliations I'd inflicted upon him.
The air hung thick with the scent of sex and lingering magic, but tonight, I craved something sweeter, more indulgent—a feast of the senses to deepen his devotion.
From the bedside table, I retrieved the jar of date syrup, its rich, amber contents sticky and aromatic, harvested from the southern groves and enchanted to warm slightly on contact with flesh, heightening every touch.
