She kissed like the end of the world.
Not fast. Not clumsy. No teeth, no tongue battle. Just slow. Devastating. Like she knew time itself bent for her.
She kissed me like a confession. Like she'd spent a century learning exactly how to unravel someone with just her mouth.
Every brush of her lips dragged heat across my skin. Every small movement timed to my breath until I forgot I had lungs.
And God help me, I let her.
Because she didn't touch me like a woman in a hurry.
She touched me like someone who had all the time in the world and wanted to waste it on me.
Her hand slipped under my hoodie, fingertips grazing skin, and my whole body snapped taut.
Not from fear.
From relief.
Like she was giving something back I didn't know I'd lost. Like I'd been starving and didn't realize how hollow I was until she fed me touch by touch.
Her palm flattened over my ribs, thumb brushing the edge of a scar no one had ever asked about. I exhaled—shaky. Raw.
I didn't realize my hands were trembling until she pulled back just far enough to watch them.
"Still want to pretend?" she asked, voice low, smoke-warm.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Not when she peeled my hoodie off like a second skin and kissed down the slope of my shoulder like it mattered.
Not when her fingers traced the dip of my waist and then moved lower, slow as sin.
Her robe slithered off her shoulders, silk pooling at her elbows.
And then she was bare.
All of her.
Skin like candlelight. Breasts full and perfect, heavy enough to make my mouth dry. Dark nipples tight with cold or anticipation—or the power she knew she had.
My gaze dragged down her stomach, to the dip of her hips, to the soft thatch of dark curls between her legs.
She didn't flinch.
She never flinched.
She stood in front of me like a goddess sculpted in heat and honey, and all I could do was stare.
And ache.
I was already hard. Painfully. My cock straining against my jeans like it recognized her body before I did.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
"You going to just sit there," she murmured, crawling into my lap, "or are you going to let me make a mess out of you?"
"Yes," I breathed.
It wasn't an answer. It wasn't a decision. It was surrender.
Her mouth met mine again, and I tasted wine, spice, and something darker.
She pushed me back against the pillows, climbed on top of me like a queen claiming her throne.
And when she rode me—God.
She moved slow at first. Cruel, deliberate rolls of her hips that made my thighs twitch and my jaw clench.
Her breasts bounced with every rise and fall. I couldn't stop watching. Couldn't stop reaching for her—palming the weight of them, thumbing over the peaks until she moaned, low, and grabbed my wrists, pinning them to the bed.
"Don't rush," she whispered. "You'll want to remember this."
As if I could ever forget.
She rode me like I was built for her. Like I wasn't just filling her—I was part of her. Every stroke deeper, wetter, hotter, until my body was a live wire.
She leaned down, breasts pressed to my chest, breath warm against my ear.
"Come for me," she said.
I didn't need to be told twice.
I came like she'd pulled it from my spine—loud, broken, desperate. My whole body shaking, pinned beneath her weight, my hands fisting in the sheets like I was trying to anchor myself to anything.
But she didn't stop.
She kept moving—chasing hers like it was owed, her thighs tight around me, her breath coming in ragged gasps until her back arched and she came with a strangled cry that sounded like my name.
Watching her fall apart—head thrown back, body trembling—felt like watching a holy thing burn.
When she collapsed on top of me, sweaty and spent, I was too gone to speak.
My fingers stroked her spine, lazy, reverent.
Because I'd had sex.
I'd had good sex.
But this?
This was the kind of thing that rewrote a man.
This was Biblical
She didn't cuddle. Didn't stroke my hair. Didn't ask if I was okay.
She just lay there, breathing quiet and even, one arm draped over my chest like I was hers now.
And maybe I was.
I didn't know what she'd taken.
But something was missing.
And I didn't want it back.
And I thought, for the first time:
You're in over your head, mate.
---------------------------------------------------------------
The light was soft.
Not warm, not golden—just soft, like it knew better than to be loud around a man who barely survived the night.
I opened my eyes.
Silk sheets.
A carved canopy overhead.
And the faint scent of her still clinging to my skin—jasmine, spice, and something I couldn't name if I tried.
The space beside me was empty.
No surprise.
I sat up slowly, dragging a hand down my face. My body ached in places I didn't know I could ache. Not like pain. More like... used. Thoroughly. Reverently.
I pulled in a slow breath.
Tried to steady the pounding in my chest.
Then I got up.
My clothes were folded at the foot of the bed.
Pressed.
Clean.
My hoodie no longer reeked of old sweat and soy sauce. My jeans had no trace of the blood I'd wiped on them two nights ago.
Someone—she—had gone through the trouble of making it look like I hadn't stumbled into this place half-broken and desperate.
But I remembered.
I dressed quietly. Slowly.
Trying not to think too hard about what last night meant—or why I wanted to ask if it meant anything at all.
The bedroom door creaked open before I reached it.
And there she was.
Seraphine.
Leaning in the doorway like the heroine in a French noir film. Robe belted at her waist, dark curls spilling over one shoulder. Barefoot. Perfect.
"You're awake," she said, sipping from a black porcelain cup.
"Barely."
She smiled. "You looked like you needed the sleep."
I grunted, tugging my hoodie over my head. "You always do that to houseguests?"
"No," she said. "You're the first to stay the night."
Her gaze held mine for a beat longer than it should have.
Then she stepped aside.
"Come. I have something for you."
I followed her down the corridor.
The air was still cold. Still heavy with the scent of roses and wood smoke and something older. But the house didn't feel hostile this morning. Just... watchful.
The hallway opened into a small study. Fire crackling in the hearth. Morning light bleeding through tall windows veiled in dust.
On the desk sat a small black box.
Antique.
Velvet-lined.
She pushed it toward me.
"Payment," she said simply.
I lifted the lid.
Three rings.
Heavy, gold. Old enough to look important. One of them studded with rubies so dark they looked like dried blood.
I blinked.
"Where'd you even get these?"
"Does it matter?"
I closed the lid.
No note. No smile. No catch.
Still... I knew better.
"This covers the debt?"
She tilted her head. "It covers far more than that. But I doubt you'll be satisfied with only your debts cleared."
She was right.
And I hated that she knew.
I slipped the box into my coat pocket.
"Thanks," I said, voice rough.
She stepped closer. Reached up.
For a second I thought she was going to kiss me again.
But she just fixed the collar of my hoodie. Smoothed her fingers along the edge like she was dusting something off me.
"There," she said quietly. "Now you don't look like a man who gave himself away."
My throat went tight.
I opened my mouth. Then closed it again.
No words seemed right.
She didn't ask me to stay.
She didn't ask me to come back.
But her eyes said everything else.
And I wasn't sure if I'd left anything behind in that bed—
—or if something had been taken from me.