“Celine,” he murmured against her mouth, “I could worship you.”
“You did,” she whispered back, cheeks flushing at the memory. “And I—”
He kissed her before she could finish, a soft command and a confession in one.
Heat unfurled.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
His breath caught against her throat as he bent over her, and the room, the morning, the world contracted into a single point of gravity between them.
The moment teetered—dangerously, beautifully—on the edge of more.
A sound in the corridor brought them both back to earth.
Elias drew in a tight breath, forehead resting against hers, his hands trembling just slightly on her waist.
“We should prepare,” he said hoarsely.
“Yes.”
Her voice was just as unsteady. “I should… compose myself.”
He closed his eyes. “If I touch you again, composition will be impossible.”
“Then we should go,” she whispered.
He rose first, offering his hand. She placed her fingers in his, aware of every lingering spark between them.
“Celine,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him.
His gaze was steady.
Certain.
Utterly unguarded.
“Tonight,” he murmured, the word brushing her skin like a vow. “Tonight, we end the waiting.”
Her breath caught.
“Tonight,” he repeated, his voice low with conviction, “we do not stop. We do not step back.”
She swallowed, heat blooming behind her ribs.
“Elias—”
He lifted her hand and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles.
No haste.
No hunger.
Reverence.
His jaw tightened, his breath unsteady.
