His breath hitched, but his voice was steady. “No,” he murmured. “That’s not what I thought.”

She stilled, a flicker of surprise shadowing her features. “Why not?” she asked, quiet now. “Do you not find me attractive?”

He looked at her then—not at her beauty, which was undeniable, but at the contradictions beneath it. The confidence so sharp it cut, the poise masking a volatile edge, and beneath it all… something fragile. Something real. She was chaos wrapped in silk, both irresistible and dangerous, and gods help him, he couldn’t turn away.

His hand slid into her hair, fingers threading through until he gently drew her toward him. His mouth met hers in a kiss—brief, deliberate, and anchored in restraint. Just a taste.

When he pulled back, his voice was low. “This is restraint, Katerina. Not repulsion. So don’t question whether I want you.”

“Prove it, then,” she whispered, her lips a breath away, tracing the shape of his, not yet kissing, only threatening to.

It unravelled him.

He pressed forward, pushing her back into the vanity with a muffled thud. The breath she exhaled was sharp, but it caught midway as his mouth claimed hers again—no longer hesitant, no longer testing. His kiss was fevered now, unspooling something between them that had long existed before this.

Her fingers gripped the front of his shirt, knuckles white as she kept him tethered.

He lifted her, thighs beneath his palms, and set her onto the edge of the vanity. Bottles rattled. Something fell behind them. Neither flinched.

Her tongue swept past the seam of his lips, coaxing a response that met her in kind, and her hands—deft and unrelenting—worked at the buckle of his belt. It hit the floor with a muted thunk, his sword beside it, forgotten.

Fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, slow at first, then with purpose. She pulled upward, and he leaned back just long enough to strip the garment off himself, casting it to the floor in a careless sweep of motion.

But as the shirt landed, something caught his eye.

The box—the white one—had shifted in their moment of frenzy. The cloak inside had moved just enough to reveal the faint edge of something else, something darker. A fragment glinted faintly in the light: black, polished, almost obsidian in texture.

He stared—only for a second. But that second stretched.

And then her hand was on him, slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers, and the thought fled like smoke in the wind. The moment reclaimed him. Her hand, as gentle as it was deliberate, undid him.

He braced one hand against the wall, the other gripping the vanity’s edge as if he needed something solid to anchor him. His shoulders hunched forward, his mouth stilled against hers. Breath grew heavy. Shallow. He felt her fingers wrap around his shaft, unhurried, confident. The air touched the slickness at his tip, cool and cruel against flushed skin.

This was his first. She was his first everything.

And his body—traitorous, untrained—gave him away before he could hold the tension any longer. It came quickly, urgently, in thick lashes that stained the front of her gown. The warmth bled into the silk, darkening the purple where it clung.

Still, her hand lingered on his cock, coaxing the last of him as she murmured near his ear, her breath a tickle. “And I thought elves were supposed to have longer stamina.”

He swallowed, his voice low and even despite the heat blooming on his face. “We do… You just have experienced hands.”

His fingers found the lacing at the back of her bodice and tugged. Once, twice—then the thread snapped with a sharp sound, and she gasped. The sudden looseness of the garment made the dress beneath slip, fabric spilling down her shoulders and catching only at the curve of her breasts.

His mouth found her neck—salt, lavender, and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Something dangerously close to addictive. Her hand curled into his hair, guiding. Needing. His lips moved lower, shoulder to collarbone, reverent in their descent.

“Take me to the bed,” she breathed, voice fractured.

He didn’t hesitate.

His hands slid up her thighs, gathering fabric as he lifted her. One hand gripped her backside; the other cradled the bend of her knee. She clung to him, her mouth returning to his, lips eager and tasting of want.

Only when Thallan laid her down did the room pause. Katerina’s hands moved quickly, tugging at his trousers with a kind of hunger that made his skin flush anew. He knelt between her knees, casting aside what remained of his clothing until he was bare—fully, undeniably.

She was sprawled across the bed, her hair wild, her chest rising in soft, trembling waves. Her gown was bunched around her hips, her thighs milky and smooth and parted just enough. A glimpse of lace. A flash of pink where the neckline had slipped. Everything about her was half-wrapped, half-revealed—like temptation incarnate.

“Such a gentleman,” she purred, eyes lidded. “I expected you to be… less hesitant.”

He said nothing at first. His hand traced the length of her stocking, from ankle to knee, then slid just beneath it, drawing it down with aching slowness.

“Perhaps I just wish to take my time with you,” he murmured.

And he meant it. Because she was more than just beautiful. She was dangerous. And he wanted to remember every second before the fall.

“Then make sure you take the time to learn my body,” Katerina whispered, her voice like silk drawn slow over skin, “so that you may learn to summon the noises you’ll one day crave like breath.”

Her gown was peeled away further, fabric whispering over her skin before it was cast aside with casual finality. Her hips lifted in a silent offering as his fingers hooked beneath the lace that remained and pulled it down with quiet devotion. He watched the way her body responded to exposure, to touch, to want made visible.

Thallan’s hands slid along the curve of her thighs, firm and exploring, his thumbs dimpling the soft flesh as he moved. His grip shifted to the swell of her backside, lifting her just enough before pulling her toward him. The motion was unhurried, almost gentle, yet full of intention.

His cock pressed against her upper thigh, hot and rigid, a silent promise against the softness of her skin.

Large hands returned to her sides, sliding upward until they cupped her breasts. Full, warm, and heavy in his palms, his fingers curved around them, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked beneath his touch. He squeezed—carefully at first, then firmer—until her breath hitched and her back arched beneath him.

Her body was not a map to be studied, but a language—alive, shifting—and he was eager to learn how to speak it.

Thallan leaned forward, his breath warmed the swell of her breast just before his tongue traced over them. With both hands, he brought them together, the softness of her pressed between his palms, the weight of her a luxury in itself.

He circled one nipple with the slick drag of his tongue before drawing it between his lips. A sigh spilled from her, breathless and laced with want. His fingers teased the other, brushing it with the gentlest touch before pinching—just so—and tugging with a slow insistence that made her hips stir beneath him.

Then his mouth moved to the opposite bud. She inhaled sharply, back lifting off the silken bedding. He placed a kiss between the valley of her breasts before his lips continued downward, leaving a trail like falling rose petals across her stomach.

Her breathing grew shallow, her body restless beneath his hands. Without needing to ask, her thighs parted further—graceful, unspoken permission. And Thallan obeyed.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, closer still. His hand curled beneath her knee, drawing it up and open, exposing her entirely to his view. His fingers parted her, revealing a glistening blush of pink before his finger teased downward in a soft stroke.

A sound escaped her—half-moan, half-exhale—and he looked up. Through the thick veil of his lashes, he caught the way her lips parted, the tremor across her brow, the fragile ache painted across her face. Gods, he thought, she is exquisite. And she was right—he did want to hear those sounds. He craved them, with a desperation that pulsed beneath his skin.

He bent forward, his tongue flicking once across her, tasting her. She gasped, fingers diving into his hair as he pressed in deeper, nose buried in the softness of her while the perfume of her arousal overwhelmed his senses. It was heady, addictive. His body throbbed in response, straining against the friction of linen sheets, utterly forgotten in the storm of her.

But he wanted more—needed more. To study her like scripture. To know the map of her by tongue, by hand, by the way she sang beneath him. He moved slowly, dragging his tongue upward as his middle finger slipped inside her. The tight heat of her clenched around him, every ridge and flutter a marvel. He stroked gently, exploring, curling inward. 

When he found that bundle of nerves, already swollen with want, he pressed his mouth to it and sucked. She arched, hips lifting, a broken moan escaping her lips. Her hand gripped his hair tighter. Her walls pulsed around his finger, wetter now—eager, greedy.

He added a second finger, sliding them in with care and purpose. Curling. Stroking. Coaxing. Every motion designed to draw out more of those intoxicating sounds. He looked up, and what he saw would haunt him: her lips parted in helpless pleasure, her hand at her breast, squeezing as though needing something to anchor her in this moment.

No painting, no poem, no divine vision could rival this.

His own arousal ached unbearably, heavy and flushed, pressed hard to the bed, leaking in time with the rhythm of his need. But he remained focused, utterly consumed by the beauty unraveling beneath him.

He returned his mouth to her again, lips and tongue dancing across that trembling bud. And then—he felt it.

Her thighs trembled. Her back arched. Her moan rose like a crescendo, different now—raw, desperate, cracked open.

“Gods… T-Thallan—”

Her voice broke on his name, a sob of pleasure, and the taste of her release spilled across his tongue like nectar he’d never known. Sweet. Singular. Hers.

He closed his eyes as he drank her in, every drop sacred. If the heavens held a shred of mercy, they would grant him this again. This taste. This sound. This woman, trembling and undone by his hands, his mouth, his name.

Her hand slipped from his hair, brushing down along his cheek—gentle, grounding—before sliding beneath his chin. With the slightest tilt of her fingers, she guided his gaze back up to hers. She was reclined on one arm, her face flushed, lips parted just enough to show her breath was still catching up with her pleasure. But her smile—soft, satiated, and just a little wicked—met his eyes with amusement.

“So devout,” she murmured, her voice a teasing lilt of condescension and mischief. Her fingers slipped behind his neck, coaxing him to rise from where he knelt between her thighs. He moved willingly, letting her pull him forward until their mouths met—her kiss deep, slow, claiming. Her tongue swept against his, tasting what he’d taken from her. 

“This is the part,” she whispered against his lips, “where I beg for your cock.” Her breath danced hot across his skin. “But I don’t need to, now do I?”

A low sound rumbled from his throat—half laugh, half groan. “No,” he rasped. The word was rough, broken by need, by restraint pulled so tight it threatened to snap.

He leaned forward, guiding her gently back down to the bed, the fall of her hair fanning over the sheets like ink spilled on silk. One hand pressed into the sheets beside her, bracing himself, while the other wrapped around the thick base of him.

He guided the slick head of his cock down the length of her, sliding through the wet heat of her with aching slowness until it found her entrance. He paused—only a breath—before pushing forward.

The tight resistance of her around his tip made his eyes flutter shut, his jaw clench. A groan left his lips, unbidden and guttural.

“That’s a good boy,” Katerina breathed, the words barely more than a whisper, but they struck him like lightning—blessing and temptation at once.

Her fingers found his arm, tracing the hard lines of his forearm, upward with reverence. As he sank in deeper, inch by inch, her nails bit into his skin, a delicious contrast to the wet velvet wrapping around him. Her breath caught—sharp, desperate—as he filled her.

She moaned, low and lovely, and he nearly lost himself in the sound alone. One hand clung to his bicep, the other gripping the sheets, her body arching toward him, as though even now, it wasn’t enough. As though she wanted more—not just of him, but all of him.

And gods help him, he wanted to give her everything.

Thallan’s hips rocked into her in a slow, desperate rhythm—each thrust chasing that rising, unbearable swell coiling low in his testicals. It was coming too fast. He could feel it building, cresting in a heat he couldn’t quiet, and the fear of it—of disappointing her, of ending too soon—made his breath stutter.

He dropped his head, gaze falling to the twisted bedsheets beneath them. The tension in his jaw ached as he fought the inevitable, his face hot, his ears burning with shame. Gods, she felt too good—too perfect, too much—and his control, already fraying, began to unravel.

Katerina’s fingers trailed up the line of his shoulder, then cupped his cheek. Her thumb brushed his skin, grounding him. “Eyes on me, Thal,” she murmured, voice low and steady. Her other hand pressed to his back, guiding him down until their foreheads nearly touched. “Keep going,” she whispered, her lips brushing the curve of his ear.

Her legs wrapped around him, anchoring him in place—and in her. With her encouragement, his rhythm steadied again, slowed to something deeper, more deliberate. Each motion now hit where she wanted him most, and the sweet sound of her breath catching made his own pulse stutter.

Her nails dragged down his back, but he hardly noticed. Her mouth found the slope of his neck, warm lips ghosting across skin. “Just like that,” she whispered—soft, sultry, not teasing this time but guiding. Offering—not mockery—but reassurance. 

A flutter, warm and quiet, stirred in his chest.

His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers curling into the silken weight of her hair. He drew her back just enough to see her face—those impossibly green eyes locking onto his. They held him there. Anchored him in a way that felt as if the world itself had narrowed down to this: her gaze, her breath, her body beneath him.

He kissed her. Not hungrily, not with urgency—but with worship. A slow, aching kiss that said I am yours. Their bodies moved together in time, the steady rhythm of skin against skin echoing softly in the hush of the room. Their moans mingled with breathless gasps, the scent of sweat and want heavy in the air.