...His laugh echoed through the room. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at obeying.” He waited for me to turn to him before adding, “I’m much better at giving orders.”

I bet he was. With that voice and those eyes… I trembled. He looked down at my chest. The annoying flimsy Quantari garment I wore did nothing but push my big boobs front and center for anyone who cared to get a good look. My nipples decided this would be a great time to poke out even further in the chilly room. I bit my lip and cringed, praying he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. His eyes were staring right at them.

“And while we’re on the subject of clothing, Your Highness, I suggest you do some covering up as well.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” I said crisply. “Shall we begin?”

“Any other rules, besides the name and the attire?”

“Oh, yes. No touching. Absolutely no touching.”

He tried not to smile, but I could see the lift of one cheek fighting it. Fighting it good.

“As you wish.” He pulled out a piece of paper from under his locked book and wrote a few lines.

“See this?” he asked. I nodded. “I am writing your rules in my language. Notice the pattern here—the negative goes before the verb or noun. So we have, ‘Wear shirt. No calling you Sibeta. No pictures of sex. No talking of sex, etc. No touching.’ Anything else?”

“No, that’ll do it.”

“Then sign here.” He rolled a pen that looked like clear glass down the desk to me, and I caught it before it dropped to the floor.

“Huh?” I offered the pen back to him. “I trust you.”

He grasped the pen. And my fingers. Just a dusting of fingertips, but my insides turned molten. One rule already broken. My nipples grew harder. What the hell was I thinking coming in here like this, sitting next to him?

“But I don’t trust myself.” His sensuous voice had dropped an octave. “We should put this in writing.”

He lifted the paper and began to write some swirls and dashes. “This is ‘Bailey’ written phonetically. We have no true translation, although we have a flower called bai lete.”

A flower was nice. I wondered what it looked like as I took the pen and mimicked his squiggles. “As long as you’re not making me write something like ‘ass’ or ‘stupid woman from another planet,’ that kind of thing.” We both laughed.

He set aside the paper and found another. “We can start with conversation, then write some of the words.”

“Actually, I’d like to begin with the card you gave me last night.”

“Ah. That.” He opened a side drawer and pulled out another of the same card. “It says, ‘Kennar Descrie, Seer and Summoner.’ Then it lists my portal ID.”

“Kennar?”

“Yes, that’s it. That’s my name.”

The r was hard, guttural. He spoke his last name like a sensuous whisper, as if talking dirty into a lover’s ear. Chill bumps dotted my body. “Does it have any special meaning?”

“Of course it does. It’s my name.” He was teasing me.

My tongue darted out in jest. His gaze dropped to where it rested between my lips. His expression grew steamy, so I pulled my tongue back in. Not knowing the customs here could get me in big trouble, and I wondered what I’d just said to him with the gesture.

He bent close to me, as if sharing a confidence even though we were the only ones in the room. “You’ll not want to do that around men.” His breath teased the hair covering my ear, and his nose pressed into my temple.

“Um, I believe you’re touching me.” But I didn’t move away.

Kennar pulled back just enough to break contact, but I could still feel his warmth. “Would you like to know what the gesture means?”

I leaned back in my chair as far as possible to face him. “Sure.”

“But then we’d be breaking another rule.”

I was too curious not to ask. “Which rule?”

“The ‘no talking about sex’ rule.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose you could tell me in, um, clinical words what it means, could you?”

“Better yet, I could show you.”

“I have a feeling that would violate our last rule, the one about no touching—”

“We’ve already messed up with that one.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But not, like, really messed up.” Not yet anyway. I shifted in my seat, my face growing hotter by the second. “No showing then. Just telling.”

He grinned, obviously pleased to contribute to my carnal education.

“When a woman sticks her tongue out at a man, she wants him to drop whatever he’s doing, lift her skirt…”

I should’ve stopped him right there.

“…then get down on his knees to part the outermost lips of her sex and place his tongue on… Oh, I forget the word.”

The naughty glimmer in his eyes told me he hadn’t forgotten a damn thing. “Clitoris?” I supplied.

“Yes, her clit…”

I shook my head. “‘Clit’ isn’t clinical enough.” Especially the way he said it.

“Clitoris,” his voice caressed each syllable, “and she doesn’t want him to stop until she’s right at the edge of orgasm, ready to come into his mouth with just one more little nudge. Then he’s to start giving her longer licks, to slow the pace while she begs and grabs his head to thrust him harder into her secrets. Of course, some women’s jut out proud and erect with no hiding at all. Like a tiny tongue.” He glanced down to where I held my hands together in a sweaty bundle. “What is yours like?”

“Excuse me?” Hearing seems to be the first thing to go when you’re about to drip onto the floor in a huge, wet puddle.