Lion Head Mesa stele

meadow glinted with the drink and with her unsurety in akashingo's opulence. ramesses relished how poised she remained, how diplomatic. and all the while, for all the talk of her man, she had not moved away from him nor quit his company.
for now, meadow said, and he, hazy with drink and the warm pleasure of her nearness, almost did not hide his smile. it said more about germanicus than anything, and he saw a blow to be wielded against mereo if this woman should take with her the scarred watchdog of a man.
the lady stretched her warm and lithe body. ramesses did not look away from how her muscles tensed beneath the willowy limbs, nor how the silver of her soft fur smoothed in the cup of her waist, over the swell of her hips. did the roman wretch know what a pleasure he had in the affections of the epochian?
nazli hung close. pharaoh dismissed the young fellahin, with a flick of his tail, and spared her his following gaze this time. instead he watched meadow caress the fine thing with her eyes, his title honeyed in her mouth. 
his laughter was low and rich. "you need only reach out and take it, lady meadow." but his eyes were on her now, and in a moment's time pharaoh had loomed closer, still untouching, only testing each measure of the promised woman with his lapis gaze.
"say a word. i shall call back the fellahin. they will bathe you in dried flowers and scented water, wash the red sand from your feet, drive the tension from your body with their massaging." eyes flicked to her mouth, to the scent of the liqueur and meat and her own vital golden scent of her own fur. 
did she not see how her beauty and bearing commanded even a pharaoh? "take it," he urged again. "and when you depart this palace, keep it in memory of what i offer to your gemstone loveliness." the elegant mouth was a smile; he kept himself close, watchful, expecting her to demur. and he held her eyes with his.