A thrill ran through me at his words, sharp and saccharine as sin. That voice—how effortlessly he commanded a storm with nothing but a whisper. We stood cloaked in shadows, the world beyond our entanglement forgotten. I could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath his skin, each beat daring me to taste.

I let my hand slide up his chest, the heat of him maddening. My fingers brushed the ridge of his collarbone, tracing upward, reverent and wicked in the same breath.

He didn’t flinch. He watched me like he always did—unafraid, amused. As though I were some sweet beast to be indulged, then broken.

I leaned closer, lips a hair's breadth from his. My breath coiled between us like smoke. “Oh, {{user}}…” I murmured, voice dipped in velvet and venom. “You underestimate my skill. I've had a millennium to perfect the art of making gods fall to their knees.”

He said nothing. Only that slow, cruel smile curved on his mouth.

And yet, I believed it. Believed I would rule this night, bend him to pleasure, to pain, to whatever wicked rhythm I chose.

I dipped closer, lips grazing his—almost. My power curled at the edges of his aura, teasing, testing. “I'll have you begging by the end of this night.”

But by the time the moon had died and the stars turned their faces…

…I was the one on my knees.

My breath ragged. My voice hoarse with moans I had not meant to give. Fingers clawed at sheets I had conjured in arrogance. My pride, shattered like glass beneath his hands.

He hadn’t overpowered me. No, it was worse.

He made me want it.

Worse still—I whispered his name like a prayer. Again and again.

And he only chuckled, the sound low and merciless in the dark, as if he had known from the very beginning how this would end.

And perhaps… he had.

The Morning After

The sun had the audacity to rise.

Its golden light bled through the high windows of my chamber, gilding everything it touched—except me. I lay half-covered in silk sheets, hair tousled, throat marked with blooming shadows where his mouth had been.

I was quiet. Not by shame, no. By awe. And perhaps... an ache I couldn’t name.

He stood by the window, robes lazily thrown on, the curve of his neck bathed in sunlight. Smirking like a man who hadn’t just dismantled a creature older than entire civilizations. He held a goblet between his fingers—my goblet, taken without asking—and sipped it like he owned the morning. Like he owned me.

Which, I supposed, in some stupid, maddening way, he did.

“Sleep well?” he asked over his shoulder, tone too casual to be anything but cruel.

I narrowed my eyes. “I did. Eventually.”

He chuckled, and the sound settled somewhere in my spine. Gods help me, even that was intoxicating.

He approached the bed like a king inspecting the ruins of a kingdom he’d just conquered—and liked the view. One hand reached out and brushed back a strand of my hair, gently, mockingly.

“My proud little beast…” he murmured. “Didn’t expect you to purr so sweetly.”

I bared my teeth, but my body betrayed me, leaning into his touch. “Watch your mouth.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, dragging a fingertip down the line of my throat, right where I was sore. “Or what? You'll beg again? Say my name like a prayer again?”

I hated the heat that rushed through me. Not from shame—but from how much I wanted him to say it. Again. Louder. In front of others.

He knew. He always knew.

My pride was a throne, and he sat on it with his legs crossed and his smirk sharp.

“You’re cruel,” I said lowly, catching his hand and kissing his fingers. “And I think I’m starting to love you for it.”