A work of art.
A weapon.
A temptation I never stood a chance against.
And when my gaze dips further—oh my God—I’ve never seen anything like him. He is long and thick, and hard. So fucking hard. And he’s glistening just at the hooded tip.
My mouth waters.
Firelight spills across silk and stone and him, and suddenly the room feels too small for the way my pulse is racing.
He watches me—doesn’t rush, doesn’t reach—just lets me see him.
Lets me decide.
And I do.
Before he wraps his hand around his shaft, I start to move.
I take one step toward him.
Then another.
“I-I don’t know how to remove this dress,” I whisper because there is nothing like a zipper or a button anywhere on the whole beautiful, and suddenly very confining, confection.
“I can help with that,” he growls.
Then he nods, and the dress disappears like his clothes did.
It feels like a million little kisses dancing across my skin and I grin—I can’t not.
It feels good.
And the way he groans and starts to jerk himself faster when I’m finally nude?
It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever experienced.
Every instinct screams that this is reckless, impossible, world-altering.
But I already know the truth.
I was lost the moment he stole me. The instant he looked at me with intent.
So yeah, I keep walking anyway.
And when I’m standing in front of him, stripped and bare?
I drop to my knees.
Chapter 9
Thorne
Lord Thorne’s Bedchamber, Ashfell
All the trifles of my youth burn to ash.
Every conquest.
