At that, Melanthe inched forward even more, placing her hand flat on the bench of rock. It was small-boned and pale. Not the one that bore scars.

He moved his own hand closer. —Tell me how many you’ve done this with.— Ever since she’d refused to say a number earlier, his imagination had gone wild.

—This? They’re making love, so my answer is never.— Before he could argue, she said: —There’s a difference between sex and making love.—

He’d heard this said, of course. But he had experience with neither. Though he was desperately curious as to what she considered the difference to be, he didn’t want to highlight his own ignorance of such matters.

When the Volar spoke, Melanthe translated again. —He said he’s been thinking about her all night, wanting only to return to her.— With a grin, she added: —He said he’ll be tender with her for as long as he can.—

And then what? Thronos refused to ask her, just said: —Females like tender.— Not an embarrassing question; merely an observation.

—Hmm. Sometimes.—

Enigmatic sorceress!

She arched her brows at him. —I would let my partner know exactly what I desired every step of the way. He’d never have to worry on that score.—

Did she mean him or males in general? One of the reasons he hated her past was that he had no experience of his own. If she compared him to other lovers, how could he acquit himself well?

Yet if she told him exactly what she wanted . . . —When you tell me what you desire, I’ll give it to you. Anything.—

Had she inched her hand closer to his? —What about offendments? Some of the acts I might crave have nothing to do with procreation.—

With comments like this, she set his mind afire! —I will hear of these acts now.—

She slid him a mysterious smile that put him into a lather as much as her words had.

Since Thronos had captured her, Lanthe had seen entirely new facets of him—and each one confused her more.

The warlord in pain, roaring in a lightning storm.

The domineering demon in the temple.

The protector who’d saved her from dragons.

Now she could sense the conflict within him. His sexual curiosity and long-denied urges goaded him to learn about her own desires—and to watch others’, though he believed it forbidden.

How shocking these sights must be to him! —I think my angel’s a budding voyeur.—

—You lead me down a dark path, sorceress.— Thronos looked astounded that he was actually watching, but helplessly intrigued.

—You’ve really never seen others in the throes?— Their hands on the bench were inching closer together.

—Never. I’ve turned away every time.— His little finger brushed hers, and even that small contact shot currents into her skin.

—Then why look now?—

—Because I see myself as him and you as her. Because I ache for what I almost took in that temple.—

The demoness moaned loudly. The Volar’s claws dug into the rocky ground.

Lanthe swallowed. —What had you planned to do to me?—

—For the first time in my adult life, there was no plan, only impulses.— Thronos’s hand suddenly covered hers. His was hot, rough with callouses.

She glanced up at him. Thick dark hair tumbled over his forehead, almost reaching his vivid eyes. Their color was the same as the ore that had spilled from the mountain.

Molten silver lit by fire.

His shirt clung to his broad shoulders and brawny chest. His normally clenched jaw was relaxed, the grim line of his lips softened, allowing her a glimpse of his true mien: masculine, compelling, sigh-worthy.

Her heart thudded. Irresistible warlord.

His face was flushed with excitement, as if he’d just discovered flirting.

Oh, wait. He probably had.

—What would you have allowed me in the temple, Melanthe?—

She felt like she was punch-drunk, losing any inhibitions she might have had with this male. By the way he stared at her eyes, she knew they were metallic, colored with her desire. —I honestly don’t know.—

He scowled when she pulled her hand away.

—If I based my decision on physical attraction alone, then . . . — She turned her hand palm up and parted her fingers for his.

A breath left him. His hand shot to hers, fingers entwining.

They fit . . . perfectly.

—You would have received me? Parted your thighs for me?— He pressed the heel of his palm into hers, tightening his grip so sensually.

She bit her bottom lip. —It’s not based just on physical attraction, is it?— How could the mere contact of their hands make her this aroused? Her ni**les stiffened, her sex growing wet.

Averting her gaze from his, she turned toward the couple. The Volar cast his demoness a look of open adoration. Gripping her br**sts, he bucked his hips, bouncing the thrilled female.

Did Thronos realize he’d begun rubbing the palm of his hand against Lanthe’s in time with the Volar’s thrusts? Their palms were hot with friction, and Thronos’s every movement sent pleasure rippling through her body.

She exhaled a tremulous breath. Could he make her come like this? A completely new meaning for the term hand job. . . .

She would catch him staring at her as she watched; then she’d gaze up at him as his flickering eyes took in the scene. Since they were communicating telepathically, it was easy to slip into his thoughts.

He was reluctantly enjoying this spying because she obviously did, but also because it was a wicked secret between them—something they were doing together. He wanted more secrets between them. She hid a grin when she caught another of his thoughts. He was wondering how much more his swollen shaft could pain him: There has to be a limit.