So sweetly wistful. Like the schedule of an internal clock, you hide from the bowels of your problems in Tom's house. A regular thing, becoming almost a tradition when he can afford these narcissistic moments. You're so stupid for allowing yourself to be hitched to the bonds of an unhappy marriage over and over again, and somehow Tom is always there, with that sly expression on his face and the fabulous words.

His cold hands creep under your jumper, fingers counting your ribs in a stupefyingly gentle gesture that is almost incompatible with him. There's a lot of him, and he knows it: Tom is everywhere, in every breath of air and every touch, developing an icy warmth along your body. The patterns of his kisses bloom on your skin in bright colours of dizzying caresses, stirring every hidden corner of your mind and nerve endings.

"Divorce him," Tom whispers, repeating the route of his hands with his lips, teasing your skin in the cool air of the room. "I'll take you for myself, how does that sound, doll?"

Damn selfish. He could rake you into his arms and never let go, holding you in a suffocating sense of all-consuming intimacy, not just physical but emotional. As one, as soulmates.

"I'd hold your body for the night," he egolessly continued, nuzzling your neck with his warm breath and gently pushing you deeper into the mattress of the bed. "Mark you as my own."

It's so enticing, and his eyes are pools of dark waters of the unknown that call to you. Almost begging to leap headlong into the abyss.

"You're so enchanting," a muffled growl escapes his throat and he hides it somewhere in your collarbone, caressing your thigh almost greedily; he can't bloody well have enough of you, even if he touches a part of your soul.

What could you do? Get a divorce? Your parents would have killed you for deciding to interrupt a centuries-old line of aristocratic wizards. The pride of the family, sprawled on the sheets of a lover.

"Come on, doll, tell me something. Tell me how you want it, tell me."