Queen of the Darkness

appetizer."
    "Playtime?" Witch said suspiciously.
    "Mmm," he replied, licking the spot on her forehead where the tiny spiral horn would be if they were in the abyss. "This isn't the right place for more than playtime."
    "Why?"
    "Because I'd like my first time to be in a bed."
    Her anger vanished instantly. "Oh. Yes, that would be more comfortable," Jaenelle said.
    Will you invite me to your bed tonight? He knew better than to ask so bluntly, but he also knew he had to ask. "May I come to you tonight?" Feeling her tense, he quickly pressed a finger against her lips. "No words. Just a kiss will be answer enough."
    Her answer was everything he had hoped it would be.
----
    3 / Kaeleer
    Daemon braced his hands on the dresser and closed his eyes.
    Breathe, damn you, he thought fiercely. Just breathe.
    How in the name of Hell did men do this the first time? Maybe, for a youth, the thrill was enough to push him past the doubts. Maybe it was easier the first time when the woman wasn't quite so special—or when the next hour wouldn't determine whether the woman you desperately wanted would have you.
    He knew dozens upon dozens of ways to kiss, to caress, to arouse a woman and make her crave having him in her bed.
    He couldn't remember a single one.
    Daemon straightened up, retied the belt on the robe he wore over silk pajama bottoms... and swore with heartfelt intensity.
    He should have just followed where those kisses had been leading them this afternoon, should have given in to the hunger he had awakened in Jaenelle, should have acted instead of stepping back and giving himself the past several hours to think himself into a panic.
    But, wanting more than sex for his own sake as well as hers, he had stepped back—and now sincerely hoped that when he walked into her bedroom...
    He smiled at the bitter irony of it, that the one thing he had never done with a woman, the one thing he had never wanted to do and now wanted more than anything, was the one thing he might not be able to do.
    What got him moving was the concern that if he delayed much longer, Jaenelle might perceive it as a kind of rejection.
    When he tapped on the door between their bedrooms, he took the muffled sound for an invitation and went in.
    The only light in the room came from the fire burning in the hearth and scented candles grouped here and there throughout the room. The covers of the huge bed were turned down. Covered dishes, two glasses, and a bottle of sparkling wine filled a table near the hearth.
    Jaenelle stood in the middle of the room, twisting her laced fingers. The edge of what looked like a sheer nightgown made of black spidersilk peeked beneath the hem of a thick, shabby robe—one he imagined she wore on rainy evenings when she snuggled up in her room to read. She looked like a lost waif rather than a sex-hungry woman.
    She studied him a moment. "You look like I feel."
    "Sick and terrified?" He winced, wished he hadn't said that.
    She nodded. "I thought... some food..." She glanced at the covered dishes and turned pale. Then she glanced at the bed and turned paler. "What are we going to do?" she whispered.
    He hadn't done either of them any favors by giving them time to think. "Basics," he said. "We'll start with something extremely simple." He took a step forward and opened his arms. "A hug."
    She considered this a moment. "That sounds easy enough," she said, and stepped into his embrace.
    He closed his eyes and held her lightly. Just held her. Breathed in the scent of her.
    After a while, his fingers flexed. There was a comforting appeal to the texture of her shabby robe, to the way her hair brushed against his hand.
    His arms tightened, drew her closer as his hand stroked up and down her back, just for the simple pleasure of it.
    She sighed. The tension in her muscles eased a bit, and she rested against him more fully.
    He wasn't thinking of seduction when his hands began to wander over her—or when her hands hesitantly stroked him.
    He wasn't thinking of seduction when his body delighted in how different the silky skin of her neck felt under his mouth compared to the robe beneath his hands.
    He wasn't thinking of sex when he opened his robe and then hers so that only that film of spidersilk separated skin from skin. Or when even the spidersilk no longer separated them.
    He wasn't thinking of sex when his mouth settled over hers and he sent them both sliding into dark, hot desire.
    And by the time he found himself in bed, listening to