-Treasure.
Elias moved toward the wardrobe with the kind of unhurried ease that came from owning every space he walked through. He opened its tall door, reached for a wooden hanger, and slipped his jacket from his shoulders. The fabric caught a faint sheen in the light before he set it neatly on the hanger and returned it to its place among other tailored pieces. The wardrobe door closed with a quiet click. When he turned back, I was still by the door, my hands resting lightly at my sides. His gaze settled on me in a way that felt both casual and deliberate.
"What's wrong? What's troubling you?" he asked.
"I don't think something's troubling me," I said. "I thought something was troubling you."
"Yeah, well, something is troubling me."
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on both hands, his posture loose but his attention sharp. "The whole talk about you throughout the evening, over these three days… I feel like you've gotten more compliments than my own projects."
A short laugh escaped me. "That wasn't my intention. I really never thought I'd catch someone's eye."
"Why would you never think that?"
I swallowed before answering. "I just haven't thought of myself as someone that good-looking, at least not enough to be noticeable."
His brows drew slightly together. "Are you kidding me? Who destroyed your self-confidence in that way?"
"No, no, it's not about self-confidence," I said, shaking my head. "It's just about knowing where I stand. I've never seen myself in that field of… head-turning looks."
"This reminds me of a quote by Khalil Gibran," he said, his voice dropping into something softer, as if the words needed room. "'And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, but rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.'"
I smiled faintly, a breath slipping out in the shape of a chuckle. "Wow, that's deep. I'm not usually the reader. Devon is the reader."
"You seem to reference Devon in a lot of things."
"I don't remember ever referencing Devon in things. We've only talked about Devon once."
"Oh, must be my imagination then."
"His presence is often strong," I said. "That could be the reason."
Elias rose from the bed, his steps slow, deliberate, his eyes holding mine as he closed the distance between us. "Oh, well, Treasure…" His voice lingered on my name like it was a taste he wanted to roll over his tongue. "I feel like your name has given you some of its traits. Like a literal treasure."
I huffed a quiet laugh, unsure if he was teasing or serious. "Names don't really work like that."
"Don't they?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes catching mine in that way that made the air feel heavier. "I think they do. Names carry echoes of what we expect them to be. People hear yours and already imagine something rare, something worth finding and keeping. Maybe you live up to it without realizing."
"That sounds like a lot for one word to carry," I said.
"It's not just a word." His gaze drifted over my face, unhurried. "A name can shape the way people see you before you've said a thing. Some names are forgettable, but yours… it's the kind that stays in the mouth, the kind that feels like it should be protected. The kind people remember even if they've only heard it once."
I shook my head lightly, unsure what to do with the weight of that. "I've never thought about it like that."
"Then think about it now," he murmured, his hand lifting toward my face. "Because whether you believe it or not, you carry the meaning of your name in the way you move, in the way people look at you. And that," he said, his palm coming close enough to warm my skin, "is why I notice."
My thoughts caught on the shift in his tone, the space between us shrinking. The sweetness in his words felt strange against the guarded edges I had learned to keep. His hand lifted, fingers curving around my cheek, the warmth of his palm quieting the air around us.
"Do you know what the rest of the quote is?" he asked, his voice low enough to feel more than hear.
I shook my head, the movement small, hesitant.
"It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, but rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. Beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in the mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror."
The words settled over me like warm air, heavy and slow. I swallowed, my eyes falling closed for a moment before I turned my head slightly to meet his gaze. "What are we doing?" I asked in a whisper.
"Nothing you don't want," he said. "You can turn right now and exit the room, and I won't ever change anything about the way I treat you."
My thoughts tangled. I didn't mind going along with it, but I couldn't tell how much I would lose if I said no or if I said yes. There was weight on both ends, a sense that either choice could tip something I couldn't take back. Even so, I wanted to try, to see where it would go, no matter the outcome.
I nodded.
Elias closed the distance, his mouth taking mine with the same deliberate intent as every step that had brought him here. The contact was steady, certain, the kind that told me he'd decided on this long before I had. Heat bled in slowly, like warmth through thick cloth, our breaths mingling until I couldn't tell whose was whose. His hand framed my jaw, firm but careful, his palm anchoring me as if letting go too soon might cost him something.
The kiss deepened by degrees. He angled his head with measured slowness, the graze of his lower lip brushing mine before pressing in again. Wine lingered faintly on his mouth, warm and sweet, and when my lips parted on instinct, the breath between us tasted of him. A shiver ran low through my spine.
His free hand gripped my hip—just shy of possession—his thumb grazing bone as if testing where I'd yield. Behind him, the bed radiated warmth, mixing with the richer scent of his skin and cologne until every breath I took carried him deeper into me.
His hand left my hip, sliding up to the first button of my shirt. His thumb brushed over it once, as if testing whether I'd stop him, before he began to undo them one by one. Each click was soft but deliberate, his knuckles grazing my chest as the fabric slowly fell open. Our mouths stayed connected, but his hands kept working with unhurried precision, revealing me inch by inch until the shirt hung loose over my shoulders.
He pushed it back slowly, letting his palms glide over the skin he uncovered, the cooler air rushing in behind his touch. The shirt slipped from my arms and onto the floor, and his eyes took me in with a slow sweep before his fingers found the button of my trousers. He undid it, sliding the zipper down with the same patient care, his knuckles brushing low against my stomach before his hands eased the fabric over my hips.
When they pooled at my feet, he crouched slightly to tug them free, his touch lingering against my calves as he straightened, leaving me in nothing but my briefs.
Then his attention shifted to himself. He stepped back half a pace, fingers tugging at the hem of his own shirt. He stripped it off in one smooth motion, the light catching on the lines of his chest and shoulders. His hands moved to his waistband next, unfastening his trousers, pushing them down over narrow hips. He kicked them aside without breaking eye contact, now clad only in black briefs that did nothing to hide the weight and shape of his arousal.
When he closed the distance again, the heat of bare skin meeting bare skin through the thin barrier sent a sharp, hot current between us. His hand found my jaw again, mouth claiming mine with renewed hunger, and there was nothing between us now but those final pieces of fabric—thin enough to make every shift, every brush, impossible to ignore.
The kiss was unhurried but never idle, his mouth working mine the way he spoke—deliberate, precise, taking only so he could return for more. My breathing matched his without thought, each inhale brushing my chest against his. My mind thinned to sensation alone—the scrape of stubble, the quiet hum I couldn't stop.
When he pulled back, the gap between us was barely a breath. His thumb traced my jaw in an idle, unbroken line. The air between us was charged, the kiss still imprinted like a pulse under my skin. His gaze locked on mine until I felt it low in my belly. His thumb brushed my lower lip, coaxing it to part, then his mouth was on mine again—slower but deeper, his tongue stroking against mine with a drag that sent heat coiling tight between my legs.
His hand left my jaw, fingers gliding down the side of my neck, his palm settling over my throat—steady, confident, his thumb resting just under my jaw while I felt my own pulse beat against his fingers. The other hand stayed at my hip, thumb making slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of my briefs—small, grounding, teasing motions that made my body lean in without thinking.
The rest of the room dissolved into his scent, the give of his body under mine, the low rumble of his breath. My hands found his waist, feeling the firmness, drawing me closer until there was nothing left to close.
He eased me back until my knees touched the bed, his mouth trailing from mine along my jaw, each brush of lips slow and heavy. His breath warmed my ear, teeth grazing lightly before stilling in silence more potent than words. My fingers curled against the warm skin of his side, feeling the faint shift of muscle under my touch as I held him there in silent answer.
When his mouth found mine again, the kiss opened wider, his tongue stroking with deliberate patience until thought became impossible. He drew back to rest his forehead to mine, his breath slow but weighted, the warmth between us swelling until the air itself seemed ready to tip.
"Still with me?" he murmured, low enough to disappear into the shared heat of our breath.
I nodded, the hand at my throat shifting, thumb brushing my jaw before his mouth claimed mine again—softer this time, but sinking deeper. When he drew back, his hand stayed on my cheek, thumb stroking my skin as though he held something far more fragile than my face.
He kissed me with unbroken rhythm, his free hand tracing my shoulder, dragging down my arm until he threaded his fingers through mine. His palm was warm, grip steady, claiming without force.
Shifting his weight, he coaxed me onto the bed, lowering me with care until the mattress dipped beneath us. He followed, one arm braced by my head, the other splayed over my chest, heat seeping through my shirt. His lips ghosted across my cheek before trailing to my neck, each kiss a slow mark, his breath carrying wine and the darker scent of him.
His hand slid down my ribs to rest above my stomach, pausing, eyes meeting mine. When I didn't pull back, his palm curved to my waist in a slow sweep that made my stomach tighten.
The next kiss was drawn out, his tongue sweeping against mine with the same measured patience. His palm at my waist flattened, thumb moving in arcs that sent warmth rippling up my ribs.
When he shifted, guiding me astride him, it was slow, deliberate—every adjustment a reminder I could stop if I wanted. His hands rested lightly at my hips, eyes calm but challenging.
"Do whatever you want," he said, voice a low thrum.
I ran my palms over his bare arms to his shoulders, muscle taut under warm skin, then leaned to his neck, pressing my mouth to the steady beat there. I traced down his collarbone, over the solid plane of his chest, to the tight lines of his abdomen, where his scent deepened into heat.
I slid between his legs, hands gliding along the insides of his thighs. The muscles flexed beneath my palms as I kissed one, then the other, stopping just shy of where he strained against the thin cotton of his briefs. My breath hovered over him, pulling a sharp inhale from his throat. My fingers toyed with the waistband, drawing the moment until the air itself was tight with it. His hand brushed near my head, but I angled away—small, fluid, never breaking rhythm.
I teased him through the fabric, my lips and breath making promises. Then I hooked my fingers into the waistband, easing the briefs down until he was bared, thick and flushed in the warm light.
I took him into my mouth in one smooth, sure motion, lips sealing as my tongue began slow, deliberate strokes. My hands gripped his hips, anchoring him as I sank deeper, feeling the stretch, then pulling back to let cooler air ghost over slick skin before taking him in again. Each pass was unhurried, meant to make him feel every second—the glide of lips, the heat of tongue, the faint suction at my throat.
His breathing deepened, his stomach tightening under my touch. I adjusted my angle, opening wider, tongue pressing along the underside until I felt the tremor in his thighs. I changed pace—drawing back to circle the head, tasting the salt of him, then sliding down again with more depth, more pressure. His low sounds vibrated into me, rough and quiet, his hands curling into the sheets instead of me.
When he came, it was with a deep, unguarded sound, his body locking under my hands before shuddering apart. I drew him through it, slowing only when the last tremor eased. Pulling back, I let the heat in my mouth slip away, the taste of him lingering—warm, salty, faintly bitter, carrying the unmistakable weight of him. My breathing was ragged as Elias reached to the side without a word, his hand finding a tissue from the nightstand and passing it to me. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, a quiet, deliberate touch that felt almost as intimate as everything before it. I turned slightly to spit into it, the taste fading as quickly as it had settled, before wiping my mouth and letting the crumpled tissue fall aside. The air between us was still thick, charged, as though the moment hadn't really ended at all.
He looked at me like I'd stepped past every wall he had. His knuckles brushed my cheek—absent, claiming—before he rasped, "Come here."
I moved up his body, brushing hot skin with mine until his hands framed my face. His mouth took mine again, slow but firm, tasting of heat and salt. His hand slid to my hip, guiding me forward until I straddled him, the hard heat between us pressing through what little fabric remained.
The kiss deepened, his tongue pulling me closer. My hands gripped his shoulders, his moving to smooth up my sides, thumbs brushing under my pecs before gliding down again, each touch leaving heat behind.
I rocked against him, the friction sharp even through cloth. His breath caught, his grip tightening at my hips before easing again, letting me set the pace. Each grind drew the heat higher until it pooled low, insistent and heavy.
He leaned up, mouth at my jaw, then the base of my throat, each press of lips a mark without color. Laying back, his hands steadied my hips, guiding my rhythm. My palms pressed to his chest, feeling the flex of him under me as I took him in slow, deliberate movements, his length filling me to the hilt.
His eyes stayed locked on mine, following every roll of my hips. His grip slid up my ribs, back down, adjusting me until I hit the angle that made heat spike through me. I shuddered, and his faint smile told me he'd felt it.
The pace stayed controlled but thickened into instinct, the slick push and pull pulling both of us toward the edge. When his restraint finally broke, his hands gripped hard, his chest pressing to mine as his hips surged up into me, the rhythm fracturing into something raw.
Elias shifted beneath me, his hands at my hips guiding me forward until my knees were braced at either side of him. The heat between us was almost unbearable through the thin stretch of my briefs, and when he slid them down over my thighs, the air felt sharp and cool against the skin he'd just uncovered. The length of him brushing hot and heavy against me.
He held me there for a beat, one hand stroking slow along my side while the other guided himself into position, the head of him pressing to my entrance. The first touch stole my breath —hot, solid, and certain— and I had to exhale to let my body open for him.
Only then did I sink into those first slow, measured descents that made every inch of him slide in with deliberate weight.
The first push in was molten—stretching, filling, the solid length of him sliding deep until he was seated fully inside me. My breath stuttered against the thick heat, my hands braced to either side of his chest as I stayed there for a beat, letting my body take him, adjust to the fullness. His thumbs stroked lazily over my waist, a quiet encouragement to move when I was ready.
I started slow, lifting until I felt the pull of him inside me, then sinking again with controlled precision. The pace was shallow at first, testing, each push and pull a measured give-and-take. His chest rose under my palms, his breathing already deeper, his eyes fixed on mine like he was cataloguing every twitch of my body around him.
The sound of us—low breaths, the faint slap of skin, the creak of the mattress—tightened the air. Heat built low in my belly, slow and constant, my thighs burning pleasantly with the effort. His fingers dug in just enough to ground me, thumbs pressing into the soft muscle at my hips before easing again, letting me own the pace.
When I leaned forward, our chests brushed, the drag of my skin over his shirtless torso sending sparks up my spine. His mouth found mine mid-motion, the kiss deepening in perfect time to the roll of my hips. Each stroke inside me was long, unhurried, his hips lifting just enough to meet mine, the friction deepening until it bordered on unbearable.
He slid his hands up my ribs, thumbs grazing just beneath my pecs, palms broad and hot against my skin. Then they glided back down, reclaiming my hips, shifting me into a new angle. The change was immediate—a sharper drag, the head of him hitting a spot that made my breath break and my fingers curl into his shoulders. I shivered, and his mouth curved faintly against mine in that quiet, knowing way that said he'd felt it too.
The pace stayed controlled but lengthened, each rise higher, each drop slower, the thick push of him filling me from the inside out. He never looked away, eyes tracking me as though the sight itself was part of his pleasure.
I rocked forward, grinding down between thrusts, and his breath caught—barely a hitch, but I felt it in the way his grip tightened. I did it again, slower this time, drawing the moment out, and the sound he made in answer was low, frayed at the edges.
He sat up suddenly, our bodies locking together from chest to thigh, one arm curling tight around my back, the other still guiding my hips. The movement pressed him deeper, the angle driving him against the spot inside me that made heat spike through my entire body. My head tipped back on a breath that came out closer to a groan, and his mouth found my throat, teeth grazing before his tongue soothed over the mark.
We moved together like that, tight and close, every thrust a drag through heat and slickness that sent pressure mounting inside me. My thighs trembled from holding the pace, but I couldn't slow down—not with the way he was hitting me, not with the low, constant sounds he made against my skin.
The rhythm built into something inevitable, every muscle in my body pulling toward release. My hands clutched his shoulders, nails catching faintly against skin, my hips grinding harder into him now without conscious thought. He met me thrust for thrust, the control he'd held so long beginning to fray.
When he finally lost it, it was in the hard clamp of his hands at my hips, the sudden, deep drive up into me that forced a sharp sound from my throat. His breath broke against my neck, hips surging once, twice, again, until the movement fractured into something raw, all precision gone. Heat spilled inside me in sharp pulses, his body locking tight against mine before shuddering apart.
The moment pulled me with him, the pressure in me snapping in a wave that left every nerve alive and sparking. My release spilled hot over both our stomachs, the rhythm faltering only as my muscles clenched helplessly around him.
We stayed locked together through it, breaths ragged, chests pressed, the aftershocks running down my thighs. Even when it ebbed, he didn't let go—his hands stayed gripping my sides, holding me there as though the connection might fade if he released it too soon.
When I finally eased back, I stayed straddled over him, feeling the softening heat inside me, the steady thud of his heart under my palms. His gaze was heavy, unreadable, but the way his thumbs stroked idly at my hips told me the calm had nothing to do with distance. The air between us still hummed with everything we'd just done—and everything we hadn't yet.
Even after the shudder in his body eased, Elias didn't let me go. His hands stayed firm at my sides, keeping me pressed down against him while our breathing slowed together, our bodies still joined, skin hot and damp where we touched. The air around us was heavy, sweet with heat and sweat, the kind of quiet that made every small movement feel louder, more significant.
Then his hand slid up my back, fingers curling into the nape of my neck, and he tilted his head just enough to bring his mouth to mine. The kiss was unhurried but deep, his lips parting against mine so that his tongue could sweep in, lazy but certain, coaxing mine into the same slow rhythm. There was nothing rushed in it —no demand, no push— just the deliberate slide and taste of him, the kind of kiss that lingered as much in my chest as it did in my mouth.
I could taste him—faint salt, heat, the echo of our bodies on each other— and the more he kissed me, the more it felt like something inside me was softening, loosening. My fingers found his shoulders, curling there, and I leaned into him without even meaning to, drawn further in by the way he moved against my mouth. Each pass of his tongue was measured, almost decadent, like he was savoring me as much as I was him.
The afterglow seeped into me in waves—the deep ache in my thighs, the faint pulse still throbbing low in my body, the slick warmth between us—but the kiss turned it into something else entirely. My head felt light, hazy, as if the oxygen in the room had been replaced with him. It was almost dizzying, the way the world narrowed to nothing but his mouth, his breath, the weight of his hand at the back of my neck.
He kissed me like there was no reason to stop, each brush of lips melting into the next until I couldn't tell where one ended. My chest pressed to his, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart through the lingering heat between us, and I realized I was holding him tighter now, chasing the kiss as much as he was giving it.
When he finally drew back, it wasn't far—just enough for his breath to mingle with mine, his forehead resting against me. His thumb stroked the back of my neck once before he whispered, voice low and warm, "Still with me?"
I was. But I felt like I'd been drinking something strong, something heady and dangerous, and I wasn't sure I could have pulled away even if I'd wanted to.
We were lying on our backs, the sheets still warm between us, the faint scent of sweat and skin clinging to the air. My breathing had evened out, though the rhythm of the last hour still lingered in my chest. I turned my head toward him.
"I probably should go," I said, my voice lower than usual, almost careful.
Elias shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "I have a question. Why is it that every time I try to touch your hair, you swerve away?"
I blinked at him. "Oh… I did that? I didn't notice. I was just too focused. Honestly, I'm even surprised you were paying attention to something like that while we were literally doing it."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to make me uneasy in that way he often did. "Oh, I noticed a lot of things, Treasure. But nonetheless, this was nice. We should probably do that again."
"Sure… yeah," I replied, pushing myself up a little. "I need to go back to my room, take a shower, and probably go to sleep."
"Can I get one last kiss before you leave?" he asked, his tone light but steady.
I hesitated only a moment before leaning down again. Our lips met, slower this time, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted faintly of the last one. When I pulled back, he was still watching me, that same unreadable weight in his gaze.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, reaching for my shirt where it had been left. The fabric felt cool against my skin as I slipped my arms through the sleeves. My fingers worked quickly at the buttons, sliding them into place without looking down. I tucked the hem neatly into my pants, smoothing the fabric flat before fastening my belt.
The room was quiet except for the muted sound of the leather sliding through the buckle. I gave it one quick pull to tighten, then straightened, glancing at him briefly before walking toward the door. My hand found the handle, and without another word, I stepped out into the cooler air of the hallway, letting the door fall closed behind me.
I shut my door behind me and went straight for the buttons of my shirt, working them open without thinking, the fabric slipping from my shoulders and falling into a heap on the chair. My belt came next, the quick pull of leather through metal, then the rest of it, all dropped in a line to the bathroom. The light was sharp against the tiles, the mirror catching a quick flash of my reflection before I stepped past it.
I turned the tap on high, steam rising almost instantly, and stepped under the water before it had even settled into the right temperature. The rush hit my skin in a way that made my shoulders tense, but I didn't care. I went for the soap first, running it over every part of me, not in the slow, lazy way I usually showered but with purpose, as if I could wash away the last hour from my skin and keep only what I chose. My hands moved over my chest, my arms, down my stomach, over my legs. Then I reached for the shampoo, squeezing out more than I needed, working it into my hair with the same urgency.
The lather slid down over my temples, into the water, my fingers digging in deeper than they should have. "What the fuck does he mean?" I muttered to myself, tilting my head back into the spray. Notice that I swerve when he tries to touch my hair. The thought stuck there, heavy.
I couldn't just tell him I don't like people touching my hair. If I've learned anything, it's that you never tell anyone where your weaknesses are. Never tell them where your problems start or what your insecurities are made of. You keep that locked away. The only person who knows everything is Devon. And I can't let anyone else in the way I let him in. Devon has known me since I was a baby, and even now, as adults, that kind of trust is impossible to hand over to someone new.
It wasn't easy back then either. I'd decided a long time ago, back in Crifton, that part of me was going to stay buried there. I wouldn't think about it, wouldn't bring it up again. That was mine to keep.
The strange part was, with Devon, even when we were close, even when it turned physical, he knew, and he respected it. I never hated anything he did. That trust made it easy, made it safe. With Elias, it was different. I had to keep my guard up, make sure nothing slipped, while also trying to enjoy myself. And I had enjoyed it, which was so fucking strange.
Or maybe it wasn't strange at all. Maybe I'd just been pent up for too long. Maybe he really was that good, which—yeah—he is. Elias's body is incredible, every line of him precise and strong. The way he moved, the way he touched, his size, the way he fit against me—it was phenomenal.
I rinsed the soap from my hair, the heat of the water loosening the last bit of tension in my neck, and as I leaned into the spray, one thought cut through the rest. I wonder if Devon ate today.