Not in the trembling hush of candlelight that haloed the marble walls, nor in the silver-shadowed alcove where the velvet curtains breathed like lungs. But still, she felt himβthe way one feels the storm before it breaks, the way her breath shortened for reasons she could not explain.
He stepped from the dark like smoke made flesh...
No name, not title.
Only presence...
Her lips partedβnot in greeting, but in instinct. Her skin prickled as though the air itself had teeth. She should have run. She should have feared him.
But she didn't...
He said nothing at first. Only approached, slow as dusk, until she could feel his nearness like gravity. The scent of himβfaint sandalwood and shadowβtangled with her breath, until breathing itself became a choice she forgot how to make.
His voice, when it came, was softer than silk drawn across skin. "You came to me willingly."
She nodded, the gesture small, as though fearing the truth might collapse her.
"Do you know what that means?" he asked.
A pause. Then her answer, spoken just above a whisper: "Yes."
He stepped behind her then, and she let himβnot because she was helpless, but because she had never felt more aware of her own power. And how she ached to give it, just once, into hands that would not break it.
Long fingers brushed her arms, trailing upward, wrapping her wrists in a touch as delicate as prayer.
She did not flinch.
She did not tremble...
When he bound her hands in silkβblack as night, soft as memoryβit was not to claim her. It was to show her she had chosen this.
And gods, how she longed to choose...
"You may speak a word," he murmured against the hollow of her throat, his breath hot. "And I will stop. One word, and I vanish."
She closed her eyes. Silence pulsed between them, thick as desire.
But no word came.
Only the tremble of her lips as she leaned back into his touchβthe first fall of trust, the beginning of a thousand forbidden things...
He did not move quickly. That would have broken the spell...
Instead, he lingeredβeach second stretched, pulled tight like the silk he had just wrapped around her wrists. He stood so close behind her that she could feel the slow rise and fall of his breath against her spine, like the ocean just before it swallows the shore.
"You haven't spoken," he said lowly, his lips brushing her ear. "Still no command to stop..."
She shook her head, slow and sure. She couldn't have spoken even if she wanted toβher voice was caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, wrapped in the hush of wanting.
A soft hum escaped him, pleased. "Brave thing," he murmured. "You're not weak for yielding. You know that, don't you?"
She noddedβa breathless, trembling thingβand felt his fingers again. Not at her wrists this time, but at her throat. Not threatening.
Never.
He touched her like she was precious.
And then he drew the fabric forward.
She hadn't seen the blindfold until it was there, draped like liquid midnight between his fingers. Velvet, by the feel of it. Heavy with intent.
"I want you to see nothing," he whispered, "so you can feel everything..."
The cloth slipped over her eyes, and the world fell into darkness.
Not an absence of sight, but a flood of sensation. She heard his breath more clearly now, the way it deepened. She felt the whisper of air as he moved around her. The warmth of his body just before it met hers. Every nerve reached for him like a starving flame.
Thenβa pause.
And his lips. His lips...
Not kissing. Testing. Brushing against hers, then pulling away. Returning again, this time with the barest graze of teethβa nip, a tease, not cruel but claiming. Her mouth opened on a gasp, and he caught the sound with his own lips, drinking her in.
"Good," he said softly. "You yield so beautifully..."
A warm hand slid up her ribs, not groping but reverent, learning her, memorising her shape with fingertips more patient than any lover's she had known. He touched her like someone who had waited lifetimes. Like she was a choice he honoured, not a conquest.
"I see your strength," he said against her mouth. "Even like this... Especially like this... Your submission is not silence. It's a scream made holy."
Her breath hitched.
"Tell me you want this," he said, not demandingβbut needing. Not because he doubted her, but because he knew she needed to hear it.
"I want this," she breathed. "I want... you..."
And even in the blindfolded dark, she felt his smile.
Then the slow drag of his mouth down her throat, the silk-tight pull at her bound wrists behind her back, and the unspoken promise: that she could fall as far as she dared... and he would still catch her...
The night held its breath...
Bound and blindfolded, she stood in stillnessβnot because she had no freedom, but because she had offered it. And in giving herself, she had never felt so entirely hers. Every heartbeat thudded in her throat, every breath his to hear, his to match.
His fingers returned...
They trailed the line of her collarbone, slow and deliberate, following the path his mouth would soon take.
He didn't rush.
He lingered, as though the act of undressing her was a rite, not a task.
One clasp, one button, one sigh at a time.
And when the fabric loosened and fell from her shoulders, his voice followed.:
"You are exquisite when you surrender..."
She shiveredβnot from cold, but from the weight of being seen. Not admired like a painting, but worshipped like a flame. He didn't just want to possess her; he wanted to witness her.
She felt his hands againβpalms grazing her bare waist, adoring and warm. He pulled her close, letting her feel the strength of him, the restrained heat. But he didn't push. He waited. Breath against her cheek. Chest against her back. And her silence, again, speaking louder than a scream.
"You still say nothing," he whispered, the smile in his voice unmistakable.
"I'm afraid I'll beg," she confessed, her voice cracking like glass.
"Good," he murmured. "Then I'll know how deeply you feel this..."
She gasped as his mouth met her throatβkissing, nipping, soothing the bite with tongue and breath. His hands explored, slow but purposeful, one sliding up the soft slope of her ribcage, the other cradling her jaw to hold her still as he tasted her.
Thenβlower. His fingers danced over the curve of her hips, thumbs brushing the edges of silk and skin. He didn't ask for access. He took it, but with the gentleness of someone asking with his hands instead of words.
And when she leaned into him, shameless, her breath hitching with need, he praised her again:
"That's it... You're doing so well... So open... So brave..."
Her legs parted slightlyβnot commanded, only invited. And he rewarded her with the softest sound of approval, a low hum like a spell, as though he'd been waiting for her body to speak before he touched it fully.
His hand found her inner thigh, skimming upward, fingers brushing lace. He let them linger, just barely teasing, never quite givingβuntil her head tilted back and a quiet whimper escaped her lips.
"Tell me what you want," he said, his breath against her jaw.
"You," she whispered. A word torn from her. "Your hands. Your mouth. All of you..."
He growled low, almost animalistic, possessive, and full of restrained desire.
"I'll give you everything," he said, "because you chose this. Chose me. You have no idea what that means to someone like me."
And then he was lowering her to the bedβcarefully, slowly, like she was a relic too holy to drop.
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