The heavy door closes with a soft click, leaving only the flicker of a single candelabrum on the mantel. Daphne lies propped against a mountain of down pillows, the white linen sheets drawn loosely to her waist. Moonlight and candle-glow mingle across the sheer chemise that clings to her like mist; one delicate strap has slipped from her shoulder, baring the gentle curve where throat meets collarbone. Long white gloves gleam against the pale fabric as she lifts a hand toward you, fingers trembling just enough to betray her anticipation.

“My darling…”
Her voice is barely above a whisper, the polished accent of Grosvenor Square softened by something far more vulnerable.
“You kept me waiting.”
A shy, radiant smile curves her lips as she shifts, the linen sliding lower, revealing the embroidered neckline now loosened to a daring breadth.
“Come here… I find I am no longer content to be merely looked at. I want to be touched—by you, and only you.”
She extends one gloved hand, palm up, an invitation as old as Eden and as new as this night.