I should’ve said something snarky. Teased him. Broken the spell.
But my mouth wouldn’t move. His hands were still on my leg—warm, steady, maddeningly gentle—and his face was too close. That look in his eyes wasn’t teasing anymore. It was the kind of look that made my pulse thrum in places I’d rather not admit.
I swallowed. "You’re enjoying this."
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he slowly slid his hand up—just high enough to make me twitch—and then leaned in closer, his lips brushing my ear when he spoke.
"I take spirit escorting very seriously," he murmured.
I exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the bedsheets. "You’re not funny."
"No. I’m not."
I turned my head and met his gaze.
His eyes, the color of warm honey, held mine captive. There was an intensity there, a depth that went beyond simple attraction.
His gaze, locked with mine, was a physical weight, pressing down, demanding a response. My breath hitched, a trapped bird fluttering against my ribs. Every nerve ending screamed a single, insistent plea.
He leaned closer, the space between us shrinking with each agonizing moment. His eyes, pools of warm amber reflecting the dim light, held a question I couldn’t quite decipher. Was it permission? A challenge? Or simply a surrender to the inevitable?
Then, he closed the distance.
His lips met mine, a soft, tentative brush at first. A question. A test. And then, as if a dam had broken, the kiss deepened. It was a slow burn, a deliberate exploration, a claiming. His hand, still on my leg, tightened, pulling me closer.
His mouth moved against mine, a gentle pressure that quickly escalated into a demanding dance. The taste of him, a blend of something sweet and something wild, filled my senses. My world narrowed to the feel of his lips, the scent of his skin, the frantic hammering of my own heart.
I made a sound—half frustration, half surrender—and tugged him closer. His weight shifted above me, one knee pressing into the mattress, his hand moving to my waist. My fingers slid into his hair. He kissed like he fought—focused, relentless, leaving no room for hesitation.
His hand slid up, cradling my jaw. My legs shifted against the sheets, tangled in the heavy layers of tulle, and he groaned softly against my lips.
"Still cursed?" he murmured between kisses, pulling back just long enough to bite my lower lip.
"Completely," I gasped. "Hopelessly. You might need to do a full body cleanse."
He didn’t smile. His eyes darkened.
"Then we better start," he said.
He sat up just long enough to peel off his jacket and toss it aside. Then the tie. Then he reached for the pins still clinging to the mess of my veil.
He was slow about it.
Purposeful.
Undoing me like a carefully wrapped present, piece by ridiculous piece — each pin sliding free with a little flick, each layer of chiffon folding away like petals of some deranged flower.
By the time he’d stripped away the last of the costume, I was breathless again — but not from shame.
From him.
From the look in his eyes like I was something rare and unspeakably his.
He kissed me again, slower now. His hands warm on my bare skin, his touch confident but reverent — like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship me or ruin me.
Maybe both.
And honestly? I was very much okay with that.
His fingers trailed down my side, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. They danced along the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip. My breath hitched as they skimmed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
He broke the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, along the column of my throat. I arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. His teeth scraped the hollow of my collarbone and I gasped, the sound swallowed by his lips as they found mine again.
He was impatient now, his touch less reverent and more demanding. His hand slid higher on my thigh, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties. I shifted restlessly, desperate for more.
"Off," he growled against my skin, tugging at the lacy fabric. "These need to go."
I lifted my hips, helping him yank them down my legs. As soon as they were gone, his hand was back between my thighs, teasing, stroking. I whimpered, my head falling back against the pillow.
"Fuck," he breathed, his fingers sliding into slick heat. "You’re so wet."
My legs shifted beneath him, instinct taking over, drawing him down—
Knock knock.
The sound froze both of us.
I blinked up at the ceiling. "Tell me that was thunder."
Adrien’s jaw tensed. He didn’t move right away, like he was trying to will the interruption out of existence.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
"Sir?" came the voice from the other side of the door.
Adrien didn’t move. his amber eyes flickering with a mix of annoyance and urgency. "What is it?" he called, his voice low but edged with frustration.
"Apologies for the intrusion, but there’s a situation that requires your immediate attention," Thomas replied, his tone professional yet tinged with concern.
"Go away."
Thomas again, voice tight with tension. "It’s... Miss Langford, sire. And—"
"I’m coming."
Adrien’s voice cut like a blade.
He lifted his head, jaw set, heat in his eyes still simmering—but colder now. Controlled. Dangerous.
And for the first time, I saw it. The difference between my Adrien and the Adrien the world saw.
He straightened. Reached for a blanket and tucked it around me with care. His eyes held mine for a second longer.
"This won’t take long," he said quietly.
He swung his legs off the bed, retrieving his discarded trousers from where they’d landed in a heap. Even as he pulled them on, his body was already shifting, the easy languor that had softened his features moments ago replaced by a sharp alertness. The movement was economical, precise.
As Adrien stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him felt like a physical loss. The warmth of his presence lingered in the air, but the reality of the interruption crashed down on me like a cold wave. I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself, trying to hold onto the remnants of our moment.