Just a copy, she repeated to herself, trying to calm down. Emyr was dead. Dead. This was just a clone she had commissioned in secret, because she had needed to learn all the dirt Emyr had had on his lord-vassals, so she could keep them from trying to overthrow her and her son. That was the only reason this man existed.
“It’s honestly adorable that you still keep clinging to the notion that you revived me for the sake of politics,” false-Emyr said, his tone mild.
“I didn’t revive you,” she ground out. “Emyr is dead. You’re just a clone, not a person. Clones don’t have any rights in the Union of Planets. You breathe because I’m allowing you to. I’ll dispose of you the moment you stop being useful.”
Emyr laughed. “Do you actually believe what you’re saying? I think it might be the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.” He straightened up from his sprawl and put his hands on Dalatteya’s waist. “You know that’s a lie, my love.”
Her stomach quivered. Gods, she hated his touch—hated how much she both craved it and hated it. “Stop calling me that,” she snapped. “And yes, you’re right: there was another reason why I cloned Emyr: death was too small a punishment for everything he’s done. You—he killed my husband.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Emyr said, encircling Dalatteya’s small waist with his long fingers. He pressed his thumbs against her belly and stroked it lightly. She had to swallow a whine threatening to leave her lips. Emyr was watching her reaction like a hawk as he continued. “Instead of wasting highly illegal cloning resources on an evil monster like me, you could have used them on reviving your precious husband. Why didn’t you?”
Dalatteya opened her mouth and closed it without saying anything, unable to speak. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her.
Emyr smiled. “It’s all right. I love you, too, darling.”
“I don’t love you,” Dalatteya bit out, incensed. “If you were Emyr, you’d know that. I abhorred him—and I abhor you.”
“You should make up your mind,” Emyr said, still radiating amusement. “Either I’m not Emyr’ngh’zaver and I can’t be responsible for anything he did to deserve your hatred, or I am. So what is it, Dalatteya?”
She glowered at him, hating the way he made her feel: foolish, illogical, and wrong-footed. Like a young, stupid girl.
His smile turning sardonic, he pulled her into his lap, her heaving breasts pressed against his firm chest. Her heart burned with hatred, and yet her nipples hardened into pebbles, aching for his touch, for his mouth. Her cunt pulsed with need.
Gods, she hated him, and she hated herself.
Her flesh might be weak, but she refused to give him the upper hand. She was in charge. She was in control, damn him.
Freeing herself from his grasp, Dalatteya got to her shaking feet and ordered, “Get on your knees.”
His lips curling slightly, he did as he was told.
She hated that he looked in control even on his knees. His telepathy was bound and physically he was no threat to her, either—one word and the gravity restraints on his wrists would be enabled. He should have looked powerless. Beaten. Humiliated.
He looked anything but.
Grabbing a fistful of his dark hair, Dalatteya pushed his face against her cunt, moaning as his mouth immediately found her hard clit through the thin fabric of her dress. He licked and sucked on her clit as his hands slowly lifted the hem of her dress. Cool air brushed against her legs, but she felt so hot she barely noticed the chill.
When his mouth finally touched her bare lips, she shuddered, pushing his face against her cunt tighter and tighter, choking him on her juices. She keened as he thrust his tongue inside her, fucking her with his tongue. So good. No other man had ever made her feel this good.
She whined when he suddenly stopped.
“Say my name,” he said, his hot breath brushing against her aching clit.
“Get on with it.”
Smiling, he blew on her clit. “Not before you say my name.”
“I’m the one giving orders here,” she ground out, yanking his face to her cunt again. “Lick.”
He licked. He licked, sucked, and kissed her until she was sobbing from pleasure. She reached her peak fast—too fast—moaning something that was hopefully too unintelligible.
She was still panting when he broke the silence.
“You did say my name,” he said, not without smugness.
“Shut up,” she whispered, her fingers still buried in his hair. “I loathe you.”
Emyr lifted his head from her cunt and licked his lips in a lewd manner. “One would think you’d stop lying to yourself by now, darling. You didn’t keep me alive for twenty years to use my knowledge of politics. You kept me alive because you can’t live without me.”
She glared at him, breathing hard, and shoved him away in disgust. “You’re delusional! You’re nothing but a clone I keep around for my amusement.”