The desert palace sprawled beneath the afternoon sun like a golden lion at rest, its sandstone walls drinking the heat, its courtyards humming.
Shadows pooled in arched doorways. Fountains murmured in hidden gardens. Somewhere, a servant was playing a stringed instrument, the notes soft and distant, blending into the heat-haze that shimmered above the tiles.
In the royal chambers, Eliam Edengold had his wife pressed against the window.
The thin silk of her afternoon robe was all that separated his hand from her skin, and his fingers were taking full advantage of the fact.
His palm cupped the curve of her buttock, his thumb tracing the edge of where fabric met flesh, his fingers squeezing with the lazy, possessive rhythm of a man who had been married for decades and still could not keep his hands to himself.
Harriet's laugh was soft, breathless, her forehead resting against the wood. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light.
