Her hand found the arm of her husband's throne — the rosewood, gold-inlaid seat she'd just used to dissolve his legacy and claim his authority — and she leaned forward over it, bending at the waist, one forearm resting along the armrest for balance. Her heavy pregnant belly hung forward, enormous and warm, pressing against the throne's carved front panel. Her other hand gathered the outermost robe panel and pulled it up over the curve of her ass, exposing the thick, milk-pale flesh of her hips — wide and soft and marked with the faint bruising of seven days of his hands — to the open air.
The inner robes followed. She worked them up methodically, without hurry, until the full expanse of her lower body was bare.
