And something new.
Dark. Dense.
It smells like sex and chocolate and secrets.
One bite in, and I almost blush.
It’s rich, velvety fudge with hidden cherries that burst with syrupy decadence.
It doesn’t just taste good.
It flirts with me. It seduces me.
I moan again, cheeks warm. Good grief.
Can dessert make a woman come?
When I finally push the plate away, full to bursting and mildly euphoric, I make my way to the bathroom.
If you can even call it that.
It’s more like a spa married a spaceship.
The walls shimmer with dark metal laced with opalescent veins.
The toilet cleans you silently and thoroughly without ever needing to be touched.
No flush. No sound. No smell.
I don’t even want to know how it works, but I am ready to swear fealty to whoever invented it.
The soap is this luxurious foam that smells like fire lilies and spice.
Masculine. Familiar.
Thorne.
My stomach flips, even though I’m already stuffed.
And yet, I can’t sit still.
I try. I pace. I sit. I try to read another incomprehensible book.
But my skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud.
So, I do what I know I probably shouldn’t.
I step outside.
And the world greets me like a furnace forged by gods.
The air hits first—dry and searing, heavy with ember and salt. But beneath that, something older stirs.
Something primal.
The wind tastes like smoke and secrets, and goosebumps ripple across my arms even as sweat beads at the back of my neck.
The ground is cracked and rust-red, like dried blood. The dirt shifts beneath my sandals, warm as if the whole world is exhaling heat from hidden vents.
