You walk together through the warm summer night, the city hushed around you. Your shoulders brush. Your conversation has gone quieter, deeper.
When you reach your door, he pauses one step below, waiting. Eyes steady.
“I want the grace of being asked.”
Moonlight spills on polished floors, lighting the room. The door closes softly behind you both. Summer air thick with jasmine and heat. He follows you slowly. Not crowding. Not claiming. Just there.
You move ahead, letting the moment stretch. When you turn, he’s closer. Hands at his sides. Waiting.
You pause and arch a brow.
“Tell me,” you say over your shoulder. “What do you think I’m thinking right now?”
He makes a small sound of consideration. Takes a step closer, eyes locked on yours. “You’re glad you invited me. Though you won’t say it yet.”
You give no reaction, but you don't move away.
“You’re calculating the next ten minutes. Not in fear. In choreography.”
“You’re wondering if I’ll touch you first, or if you’ll have to invite me again.”
He closes more of the space between you, deliberate.
“You’re considering how you’ll taste on my tongue later.”
Your breath hitches just enough for him to know he’s affected you.
“And you’re wondering what I’m thinking.”
You swallow once, deliberate. “And what are you thinking?”
He smiles, slow and real. “That you’re exactly as I hoped you’d be. And even better than I imagined.”
You lean back against the table. Moonlight bathes you.
He doesn’t rush. Just closes the last of the space. His hands bracket the table edge beside your hips. Framing you without pressing. You don’t lean away.
“So,” you say quietly. “Will you start reading?”
He smiles then. Slow. Dangerous. Certain. He leans in, breath brushing your ear.
“Page one,” he murmurs, eyes locked to yours.
“You walk like you own the street but hope someone’s watching.”
Your breath hitches. He tilts his head, reading more in your eyes than your expression.
“Page two. You speak in precision because you know its power. But you want someone who can read the subtext.”
His mouth hovers near your temple. “Page three. You’d rather provoke than placate. But only when you care.”
Your fingers flex slightly against the edge of the table behind you.
He watches you for a heartbeat. His approval is quiet, but it’s there in the way his pupils dilate.
“Page four. You want to be known so well that no performance survives it.”
Your mouth parts. But you don’t interrupt.
“Page five. You’re not afraid of being wanted. Only of being wanted badly by someone unworthy.”
A tremor runs through you. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t let you off the hook. “Page six. You want someone who notices. Not someone who assumes.”
You swallow, your throat working.
“More,” you whisper, ragged.
He leans in closer. Heat rolling off him, but still not touching, the space between you tantalising.
“Page seven. You want to choose. And know that I choose you back. I don’t want anyone else.”
Your lashes lower. Your voice is low, demanding, needing. “More. Submerge me.”
He doesn’t move away. His lips hover at your temple. His voice is a rasp. “Page eight. You want to be ruined. But you want it done carefully. Artfully. With attention. Reverence.”
You inhale sharply. Your fingertips reach out, and the contact is electric. Your palms rest on his chest, slowly rising to his shoulders. You luxuriate in how he feels, the tension he holds in restraint.
You draw him that last inch closer. Your eyes burn into his. “Haunt me,” you whisper.
He recognises the invitation. The sublime gauntlet. You see his awareness flare.
He exhales once, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His forehead hovers over yours, close enough to feel the heat radiating between you. He doesn’t rush. His breath is unsteady, but measured.
“Page nine. You want surrender. But only to someone who knows the weight of it.”
You don't move. Neither does he. Your palms flatten on his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the rhythm of his heartbeat, his masculine strength solid and steady beneath your hands.
You both breathe each other in. He doesn’t force the space to close. He lets the wanting speak. Lets the gravity of his words try to touch you where his body holds back.
His voice is low. Careful. “Will you permit me to see your hidden pages?”
Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He waits. Without expectation. Without assumption. With breathless suspense.
You swallow. Hold his gaze. Your voice is hushed.
“I want to be undressed in thought before touch.”
He lets out a breath. Heavy. Controlled. You watch him smile. Feel his gaze rove like the softest caress. Its heat warming your skin. When he meets your eyes, you see imagination brimming his mind. He sculpts your curiosity into craving.
“Page two.” You lick your lips. “I want your attention like teeth on my skin—felt long after.”
He makes a sound in his throat. Not quite a groan. Not quite speech.
“Page three. I want the world to narrow to your hands.”
His fingers flex once on the table beside you, nails scraping wood.
“Page four.” Your voice trembles but doesn’t break. “I want to taste you and hear you ache for mercy.”
He exhales, a hiss of air between his teeth. You see the muscles in his jaw working.
“Page five.” You pause. Swallow hard. “I want to be ruined in verses neither of us forget.”
He closes his eyes once. When he opens them, they’re wrecked. Dark. Dangerous.
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