"You," Orpheus whispers into her skin, "are not a good dancer." He drags his lips down her throat and along her shoulder. "You are a superlative dancer." He lifts his head to look at her, his gaze fond, adoring, worshipful. "Your body moves as if it were made of music itself, and I have never seen anything so beautiful."

His hands slid to her hips, then along her thighs. "Nor has anything ever made me so hard as seeing you dance for me."