Lion Head Mesa Hate [m]e baby, maybe I'm a piece of art

For a heartbeat Melody feared she would fall to awkward pieces — but this was not Senmut, and she was not afraid of Khusobek. Is that what you want? A slight tilt of her head, voice warm and low, To be at my whim? This time she didn't hesitate; close enough now to feel the warmth of his body, not quite touching, green eyes burning to match the daring lift of her chin.

I can be very demanding, She murmured, trailing a light touch along his jaw, brief and faint as the brush of a feather. Melody didn't know how to command anyone, she was sure, and would later wonder what had come over her to even attempt such boldness. For now, she thought of nothing past the drum of her heart and the warmth rapidly turning to heat in her veins.