Free Tangled Webs by Anne Bishop Page B

up the fabric in order to taste skin, and that kind of kiss would lead to other kinds of kisses.
    He’d already indulged himself with those other kinds of kisses.
    Besides, she was reading a book and petting him, her fingers drifting through his hair, over his shoulders and back. He could float on that sensation, and he did, beginning to settle into sleep when… tap. tap tap. tap. tap tap. Her finger against his shoulder.
    He knew that rhythm. It seldom boded well.
    “Are you asleep?” Jaenelle asked.
    “Mmmm.” Noncommittal response. Could mean anything. tap. tap tap.
    “Daemon?”
    He opened his eyes halfway.
    “When we have sex, does your penis weep with gratitude?”
    A handful of answers flashed through his mind. If he said any of them, he would end up sleeping in the Consort’s room. Alone.
    “In what context?” he asked.
    She lowered the book. Since he’d acknowledged being awake, he raised his head and read the passage. Then he read it again.
    “Sweetheart, if my penis ever does that, you will be the first to know. Not as my wife, but as a Healer.”
    “That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure.”
    Hearing the frown in her voice, he shifted, reluctantly, and propped himself up on one elbow. “What are you reading?”
    She flashed him a guilty look. “A book by Jarvis Jenkell.”
    At least you didn’t kick me this time. “That book doesn’t start with a body in a closet, does it?”
    “Yes, it does.”
    Hell’s fire. Well, Rainier would get to deal with Surreal when they reached that part of the story. And wouldn’t that be fun?
    “Do you think there’s something wrong with his brain?”
    He studied her expression. Not a flippant question.
    “Do you think there’s something wrong with his sanity?”
    Definitely not a flippant question when asked by a witch who was a Black Widow as well as a Healer.
    “Are we talking about the writer or the character?” Daemon asked.
    “I’m not sure,” she replied, looking troubled.
    Uneasy now, he pulled the sheet up to his waist, a defensive gesture. “Why are you asking? Because Jenkell wrote a bad sex scene?” Appalling was a more accurate description.
    “No, I’m asking because he seems to think this is normal behavior for the Blood.”
    He hesitated a moment, then said softly, “It’s not that far off from what was done in some of the Terreillean courts.” Other places. Other beds. None where he served willingly. Those weren’t memories he wanted to stir up and bring to the surface. Not now. Not ever.
    Jaenelle looked at him with those sapphire eyes. Looked through him. Saw him in ways no one else ever had—or could.
    She vanished the book, then shifted so that she was propped up on an elbow, close enough to him that all she had to do was lean a little to kiss him.
    Memories swam up to the surface. Ugly, hateful memories. As he looked at Jaenelle, his heart pounded, but it wasn’t from excitement or lust.
    Submit. Serve. Play the whore.
    He couldn’t do it. Not even as a game. Not with Jaenelle.
    “Daemon?” Her lips touched his in a soft kiss.
    He couldn’t do this, had to stop this before she became aroused. If he tried to oblige her while the memories churned inside him, it would damage the feelings between them.
    “Do you want to sneak down to the kitchen and snitch whatever Mrs. Beale is hiding in the cold box?”
    He blinked once. Twice. Waited for his heart to settle back down to a normal beat.
    Love and mischief. That’s what he saw in her eyes. She, too, had emotional scars that had come from violence in the bed. She would recognize when something came too close to one of his scars.
    As she looked at him, waiting for an answer, different memories washed through his mind. Memories of Jaenelle when she was twelve and he had been her grandmother’s pleasure slave. She had talked him into silly, mischievous adventures during those months, dragging him into the game like a well-loved toy that had half the stuffing hugged