John Price had fought wars, led men into battle, and faced death countless times. But nothing had ever captivated him like you.

You were a vision—the kind of beauty that poets wrote about, that men would die for. Your face, a masterpiece. Your body, temptation itself. And somehow, you were his.

Now, in the quiet of your shared home, he watched you from the doorway. You stood by the window, bathed in soft moonlight, your silk robe slipping off one shoulder. God, you were unreal.

He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His hands, calloused and strong, traced slow, worshipful circles over your hips.

His beard scraped against your skin as he kissed up your neck, his grip tightening. You were his obsession, his weakness—the goddess who had tamed the beast.