She took his hand, her fingers trembling just slightly, a whisper of urgency beneath her calm exterior.
She led him away from the firelight, through the winding garden paths, past the distant hum of celebration, until the sounds of laughter and music faded into nothingness.
Without a word, she opened a door to a small, quiet storage room behind the inn.
The air inside was thick with the scent of wood and grain, the space dim and empty, save for the sliver of moonlight spilling through a cracked window.
The world outside was gone, replaced by a silence that felt more intimate than anything he'd ever known.
She turned to him then, her hands suddenly on him, warm and eager, pressing him against the cold wooden wall.
Her fingers slid up his chest, tugging at his shirt with a kind of quiet urgency.
Her touch was a force, but not rushed—each caress sending a pulse of heat through him, each movement a promise that left him breathless.
