She loves that she can do this to him; she loves that she can get a pleasant reaction from him, when Kay is so typically stern and foreboding; she loves that outside their room so many people are afraid of him, but within it she can make him groan aloud and arch against her and kiss her when she asks.
She lies on her back, curled in the mess of sheets, her breath soft at his neck and that rogue curl of vine somewhere in the tousled mass of her hair and whispers, "Dost love me, sir? dost want me?"