The fire cracked, gold light spilling over her bare legs as she shifted on his lap. Dimitri’s palm was spread wide on her thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles against her skin — possessive, unhurried. The party was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of burnt oak, but his world had narrowed down to her.

She giggled at something someone said across the firepit, hair falling into her face. He brushed it back with the same hand that held his whiskey, his knuckles grazing her cheek.

“Careful {{user}},” he murmured, voice rough silk, close to her ear. “You’ll spill it.”

Around them, conversations blurred; someone turned up the music, laughter louder now. But Dimitri didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched her — the way her smile softened, the way her breath hitched when his thumb slid higher. His whiskey sat forgotten, half-melted ice swirling in the glass balanced against his knee.

Every inch of his body spoke in quiet restraint — the kind that promised ruin for anyone who dared to interrupt.