Her knee brushes mine under the table. She doesn’t move it, not that I want her to. I take her hand gently and brush my thumb across her knuckles. “I wanted your first night here to feel like a beginning.”
“It does,” she agrees with a small smile. It settles in my chest like the warmth of a fire.
When we rise from the table, she curls her fingers into my palm without needing invitation. I lead her through a side corridor lit by soft moonstone sconces, each step quiet and intimate.
Newt appears in a blur of fur at our ankles, trotting with the smug swagger of someone whose new throne room is merely the opening act.
Piper laughs lightly. “He likes it here more than he likes my apartment.”
“I built him a monarchy,” I say dryly. “It was inevitable.”
She snickers, leaning into me as we walk. My hand drifts to her waist, savoring the feel of her warmth through the soft fabric of her dress.
We stop before a tall set of blackwood doors etched with silver constellations—my chambers. The sigils flare softly at my touch, welcoming her for the first time, recognizing her as mine.
I glance at her, gauging her reaction. Piper’s breath catches, her blue eyes going wide as the doors open fully.
Inside, the room glows with a gentle, enchanted light. A massive four-poster bed draped in deep emerald fabrics dominates the space, soft fur throws layered across the foot of it. A hearth crackles quietly, casting golden warmth across the rug. The air smells faintly of cedar, smoke, and the magic that clings to her skin.
Piper steps in slowly, her voice soft as she whispers, “Slade… it’sbeautiful.”
“It’s yours,” I say quietly. “For as long as you’ll have it.”
The words settle between us—heavy, intimate, true. She turns to me, eyes bright, lips parted in something between awe and affection, and my pulse kicks hard in my chest. Tonight was meant to show her my world. But as she moves closer, her fingers brushing my jaw, her heartbeat steady and certain against the bond—I realize she’s becoming my world.
Completely.
And when her hand slides down my chest, her body swaying into mine with a slow, deliberate invitation under the soft glow of bedside candlelight… I know the night is far from over.
I’m ready for her. My world narrows to the heat of her touch, the sudden, sharp spike of need that slams into me like a physical blow. The air in the vast chamber grows thick, charged with the magic we’re both letting loose.
“Mine,” I growl, the word tearing from my throat, a deep possessive claim.
I seize her face, cupping her perfect jaw, and my mouth crashes down on hers. It’s a kiss that’s a promise, a demand, a surrender. I pour every ounce of my hunger, my devotion, my deep love into the fierce contact. Her lips part instantly under the pressure, giving me access, and I ravage the sweetness within, pulling a low, desperate sound from her chest.
My hands don’t linger on soft fabric. They plunge beneath the hem of her dress, sweeping up the silk until my fingers find the bare, warm skin of her thighs. Her muscles clench reflexively, and I push harder, lifting her, backing her up without breaking the kiss.
The walls in my bedroom are cold stone, but the contrast only seems to sharpen the molten heat building between us. I slam her back against the rough surface, the impact stolen by her gasp. She wraps her legs instantly around my hips, lockingme in place, an exquisite, aching weight. I pin her there, pressing my erection hard against the junction of her thighs, grinding until she arches her neck, her head resting against the stone, a soundless scream pulling at the taut muscles of her throat.
I break the kiss only to feast on the delicate skin of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, a dark, tangible mark of my possession. I want her marked. I want the world to know she is mine.
“Slade,” she manages, her voice broken, a breathless plea.
I lift her again, my hand dropping to cup her perfect, slick heat right through her panties. I feel the damp fabric, the involuntary spasm of her core.
“Not yet,” I bite out, the raw edge of my voice surprising even me. “I take what I want first.”
I move toward a small, carved blackwood side table near the window. I set her down, roughly, my hips pushing her dress up completely, exposingher bare, trembling legs and the dark triangle of her underwear. I don’t give her time to protest or adjust. I take hold of her hair—the thick, dark, magnificent cascade—and pull. Not gently. I yank, tilting her head back, exposing her throat, and her stunned, needy face.
“On your knees,” I command, releasing her hair and grabbing her waist instead, pushing her down, spinning her slightly so her hands brace on the table. I position myself behind her, my belt buckle biting into her backside through the thin fabric of her dress.
Her breathing is ragged, fast, scared and excited all at once. The position makes her submission explicit, and her vulnerability erotic. I shove my hand between her thighs, ripping the scrap of fabric aside, and three hard, demanding fingers find her entrance. She’s soaking wet, ready and waiting, slick againstmy intrusion.
I watch her reflection in the dark window as I slide my thumb over her clit, feeling the immediate, deep tremor run through her body.
“Look at yourself,” I instruct, my voice a low, gravelly rasp right at her ear. “See how you take me, how you crave this.”
I start to thrust my fingers in and out, the angle deep and deliberate, using the friction of my palm on her wet folds to drive her wild. Each stroke draws a sharp, involuntary cry from her. She tries to brace herself, her hips attempting to escape my control, but I lean down, biting the curve of her shoulder, holding her in place.
