I am still holding him, fingers tangled in the dark fall of his hair, when he lowers himself.
One moment he stands over me, the next he is sinking to his knees, arms sliding around my waist, pulling me close until I feel the solid line of his body against every part of me. My breath leaves me in a startled rush. He is tall even like this—so tall that when he bends his head, his face comes level with my chest, his mouth brushing the rise of my bodice.
My fingers clutch at his shoulders as sensation ripples outward from the contact, spreading through my ribs, my stomach, my throat. He does not hurry. His lips move again and again over the curve of my breast, while patient hands rise to the laces holding the garment in place.
I freeze when the first tug loosens the fabric.
My breath falters, heat rushing to my face as cool night air slips beneath it, brushing skin no man has ever seen. Instinct tells me to cover myself, to turn away, to hide what has always been kept hidden. I feel the old lessons rise—modesty, humility, the danger of vanity—but they tangle with something stronger now, something that wants him to see.
The contradiction holds me still.
Each knot is loosened slowly, deliberately, the tension easing one loop at a time. I feel the faint tug as fabric gives way, the whisper of linen shifting against skin before it finally parts.
For a heartbeat I cannot breathe at all. My arms remain at my sides, caught between the urge to shield and the strange, aching desire to remain open beneath his gaze. My pulse hammers with the sudden awareness, every inch of myself laid bare before him.
But he is looking at me with a kind of wonder that steadies me. His expression softens, his hand lingering above the skin, not touching yet.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Moonlight was made for this."
He does not rush. His gaze moves over me with a reverence that makes my chest tighten, as though he is memorizing each line, each shadow. When his fingertips finally brush my skin, it is feather-light, careful, yet enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"You were shaped with a hand more patient than any sculptor’s," he continues softly. "No star above us burns half so fair. No mortal cloth could hope to contain such grace."
My breath catches at the praise. I have been told again and again to be modest, to keep beauty hidden so pride would not find root. Yet nothing in his eyes suggests wicked things.
My shoulders loosen, the instinct to cover myself melting away.
His mouth follows, pressing against my skin with slow intent, lingering as though each touch is an offering rather than a taking. My fingers find his hair without thought, threading into it, holding him there.
The forest breathes around us. I feel the ground beneath my feet, the night against my back, and him before me—mouth at my breast, tasting, learning. Each press of his lips pulls something deeper from my body, something that coils and tightens low in my belly. My head falls back, eyes closing as sensation gathers and swells.
A thought rises unbidden, dangerous. What would it be to feel his teeth there, where I ache the deepest? To let him mark me where my pulse beats hardest? The idea of it steals my breath, a dizzy rush of heat and want coiling through me. My fingers tighten in his hair. My heart stumbles hard against my ribs, directly beneath his mouth.
He stills.
His eyes lift to mine, dark and aware. He has felt it. The wanting. It trembles through me, impossible to hide.
One hand slides upward, fingers brushing the soft place above my heart, grazing the spot with careful pressure.
"Here?" he asks softly.
The word barely reaches me. I nod before I can think, mouth parted, lungs struggling to draw air.
His head dips, his lips return to that spot, kissing once, twice, as if sealing a vow. I feel the careful, testing press of his teeth against my skin before they sink fully.
The bite is not sudden. It unfolds. A bright sting blooms first, followed by a heat that spreads outward in waves, stealing the strength from my legs. My breath leaves me in a broken cry, but his arms tighten around me, holding me upright.
"Shhh," he soothes against my skin. "I know. I know it hurts." A kiss between each word "Breathe for me. Let me in."
Each word lands like an anchor while the sensation climbs higher, cresting and breaking again, leaving my body shuddering in his arms. I feel him there, feel the rhythm of his mouth, the pull and release, the strange mingling of ache and pleasure that builds instead of fading. My fingers twist into his hair, clutching without thought. My vision blurs, the forest dissolving into shadow and silver.
When he releases me, the last tremor still moving through me, warmth slips along my chest where he has taken from me. He rises in a single, fluid motion. I barely have time to catch my breath before his arms gather me again—lifting, holding me close.
My head falls against his shoulder. Beneath my cheek, his strength is steady, unyielding, as he carries me a few steps into the shelter of an old willow.
The floor meets my back in a cradle of grass and moss, his strength guiding the descent until I lie beneath him, his body settling over mine. For a moment I simply breathe against his throat, dazed by the nearness, by the steady hold of his hands at my waist.
His fingers find the fastenings of my dress again. The fabric yields beneath them, loosened with the same patient care, drawn aside until the night air finds every place he has ever claimed. His gaze follows the silverthat spills across me, lingering wherever it rests. Heat floods through me at the attention alone, a quiet ache building, drawing me toward him.
