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A whimper escapes my throat. I can’t tell if it’s out of alarm or relief.
“But Sire,” a male voice replies. “How do we respond to King Louis—”
“Send him his messenger’s head,” Henry snaps. “Now get out.”
The door clicks shut, and Henry crawls through the curtain, still dressed in royal regalia.
“I could never stay away from you, my love,” he says, his cheeks turning as bright as his hair.
Prickly static crackles across my skin. He’s wearing too much. If my arms didn’t feel like they were pinned to the mattress by lead weights, I would tear at his robes.
“Please,” I whine through panting breaths. “I need you.”
His chest rises and falls as his gaze travels down my body. “Why is it that each time I see you I fall deeper in love? You are utterly enchanting.”
My jaw clenches. I know exactly how she did it. With dark magic to ensnare an innocent young man.
“Henry.” The word comes out strained.
I want to tell him he’s the victim of a love spell, but the need for his touch is so overwhelming that if I don’t have him this instant, I might die.
“None of this is real,” I whisper. “A witch put you under an enchantment.”
King Henry continues as though I haven’t spoken, his eyes glassy and trance-like. Has the love spell taken control of his free will?
The burning intensifies, and the blood rushing through my arteries, my veins, my every little capillary beneath my skin turns to molten lava.
Fuck!
What difference would it make if I let him continue? This isn’t real. It’s just a dream. And this incident happened over eight centuries ago. What I’m feeling right now—the searing arousal, the blistering need—that’s real.
“Tell me what you want.” He hovers a trembling hand over my shoulder.
I have no idea why he’s nervous, considering he pumped me with enough semen to turbo-charge the spell. Maybe the witch’s enchantments have elevated his emotions to a higher level of love.
“T-touch me,” I say, the words ragged. “Fill me. Please.”
As he straddles my unmoving body, the heavy fabric of his robes brushes against my skin. I feel every fine hair of his cloak’s fur trim.
He gazes down at me with more love and admiration than I’ve had in my entire existence. Not even Norbert looked at me like that. He was just a stalker, desperate because I gave him half a chance.
When I was growing up, the boys in the village barely gave me a second glance. Everyone with a lick of sense knew what happened to a man who took advantage of a witch from a powerful coven. Even after I turned eighteen and became free to date, they still gave me a wide berth.
The only man who didn’t fear the Styx coven was Norbert, and I expect that’s because he was a necromancer.
King Henry’s happy sigh makes my chest hurt. Basking in his gaze feels so close to stealing that tiny cracks spread across my heart.
He brushes his lips against mine, filling my nostrils with a woody scent that ignites my skin like wildfire.
The silk velvet of his cloak sweeps across my body in warm caresses that spread flames across my nerves.
It’s too much.
Not enough.
What I need are his hands.
“Now,” I groan.
