It was the kind of set you don’t get made unless you planned to keep it forever.
Or take it with you, if forever meant moving cities.
As she helped put the pieces back into place, she picked up the white queen. Her thumb and forefinger felt something at the top. A tiny channel.
“Why does this one have a hole in it?”
Gage reached over to the side table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a flat velvet box. Handed it to her.
She opened it.
Inside was a fine chain. Rose gold, exquisite.
He took the piece from her fingers and threaded the chain through the hole. Then, without a word, he rose and came behind her. Bea went still, spine tingling, as he moved her hairgently to one side. The chain circled her front. She felt every inch as he drew it into place. Then his fingers returned, fingertips skimming her nape and fastening the clasp.
The pendant lay against her sternum.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
She looked down at the queen. Intricate. Symbolic. The exact balance between not too much and everything.
“So…” she said softly, turning her head just enough to catch his expression, “does that make you the white king, or the black one?”
“Black. The white queen doesn’t follow just anyone.” His hand brushed over the ivory piece at her chest. “Only the black king.”
Bea stood. Looked up. Waited. Her breath lodged somewhere between her collarbone and rib cage.
“Want a kiss, sweetheart?”
She nodded slowly.
Gage turned, walked to the wall, and pressed something discreet near the paneling. She barely heard any noise, only the hush of blackout blinds descending over the floor-to-ceiling windows, sealing them in with the firelight and silence.
When he faced her again, everything had changed. His stare, his stance, his focus.
She felt it before he touched her. One hand slid to the back of her neck. The other to her waist.
And then he kissed her.
Not a tease. Heat and certainty poured into her mouth like it belonged there.
Bea melted into it. Her mouth parted, body already responding in ways that had nothing to do with thought. She barely registered stepping back until her thighs bumped the edge of the bed.
She expected him to guide her onto the mattress.
He reached instead to the end of the bed and pulled the fur throw onto the floor by the fire.
She looked down. Looked back at him.
He started undressing her.
Her pulse was thundering in her ears. His hands slid under her sweater first, palms warm against her skin. Then it was off—her bra too, unfastened with one clean motion. No pause. Just gone. Unbuttoned her jeans. The denim rasped as it came down. Then her underwear. Then nothing.
“On the floor,” he said.
She obeyed.
The fur caught her knees, her palms, her breath. It was soft, dense, warmed by the nearby flames. It was its own kind of seduction. It whispered against her back as she lay down, hair fanning out beneath her. She looked up at the high timber ceiling. The shadows. The soft glow flickering across the stone.
