He smiled—soft, boyish, startled. For that instant, she saw only him. Not the doctor, not the exile. Faivish. Hers.
He gathered her chemise at her hips, palms steady, reverent against her thighs. When his fingers touched her fully, she moaned—a sound unguarded, unshaped, as natural as breathing. It broke something in him. He bent to her, arms tight, her face pressed into his neck as she clung back.
“I’ve missed you,” she breathed against his skin. “I dreamed of every part of you.”
He trembled, his lips brushing her hairline. “I never stopped wanting you.”
Their mouths found each other again, slower now, deeper, the kind of kiss that says nothing has ever been lost. He shrugged free of his coat, his waistcoat—clothes falling carelessly at their feet—until only the thin linen clung to him, damp and open at the throat.
Maisie’s gaze followed him, dark and steady even as her hands shook. When he dropped his breeches, she made a soft sound—half astonishment, half hunger—and reached for him with instinct that had waited years.
“Wait,” he rasped, his restraint almost breaking. He gathered and then folded the fabric and slid it behind her back, where the stone pressed cold. “You shouldn’t have to feel stone.”
Her throat caught.
“Better?” He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the damp heat of her skin, lingering as if he could weld both their heartbeats with that one touch.
She gave a nod.
“I thought I hadn’t forgotten anything, but I have. Forgot how your skin smells when it’s warm. I forgot how your eyes go dark when you ache for something. I forgot how strong you are, even when you think you don’t have the strength.”
Her chest rose sharply, breath trembling. “Too many memories buried by time.”
“And tonight,” he whispered, his voice rough with need, “I’m unearthing them all.”
His hand slid higher along her thigh, anchoring her against the fountain’s cool stone, guiding her as he pressed closer. She gasped when she felt him—hot, solid, hovering at her entrance. The anticipation alone unraveled her.
Every muscle in her body tightened, waiting. Wanting.
“Faivish…” Her voice cracked on his name, her lips brushing his jaw as she pulled him nearer.
But he waited. His eyes held hers, asking without words.
“Faivish,” she whispered, desperate now. “Please.”
“Are you ready for me?” His voice cracked, prayer more than question.
Her nod was sharp, certain. “I’ve been ready since the rain and the carriage.”
*
He kissed heronce more, then moved—slow and steady as each inch mattered. Her body took him in, heat folding around heat, and she cried out—relief, hopefully not pain, the sensation of being found and claimed again.
Her arms locked around his shoulders, nails biting into his skin. He groaned—pleasure and longing tangled—one hand bracing her thigh, the other cradling her spine as though she were precious enough to break.
She closed around him—tight, slick, alive. Every thrust he gave her was slow, deliberate, like vows pressed one atop the other.
When she whispered his name—“Faivish. My Faivish”—it gutted him. He bent over her hand, caught her ring finger in his mouth, and kissed the band glinting faintly in the moonlight. His lips trailed up until she shivered.
“That night in Vienna,” he rasped, voice shaking with more than desire, “we made a promise no one else could see. I have honored it every day since. And I will honor it all my life.”
Her body arched into his, lips trembling as his words sank deeper than his touch. “Yes,” she whispered, joy breaking through her voice. “Yes.”
He moved again—still slow but deeper.
Their rhythm built without words. Only sound: her breath breaking in waves, his groans rough against her throat, the fountain’s steady murmur, the soft thud of petals slipping from peonies above.
She wrapped her legs tighter around him, tilting her hips to draw him deeper still.
