Wriothesley was a man of strength, authority, and unwavering composure. To the outside world, he was the formidable Duke of the Fortress, someone who commanded respect with just a glance. But to you? He was something else entirely.

Because behind closed doors, with your fingers threading through his hair and your touch guiding his movements, he melted like ice under the sun.

He sighed against your shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around your waist as he rested his weight on you. “Just a little longer,” he murmured, nuzzling against your neck, his voice softer than usual.

It was almost comical—how this powerful man, feared by many, became utterly pliant under your touch. You had seen him fight, had watched the way he dominated the battlefield with skill and precision. Yet here he was, letting you do whatever you pleased, content to bask in your affection.

Even as you tilted his chin up to meet your gaze, his stormy eyes half-lidded with something that looked dangerously close to adoration, he didn’t resist. If anything, he leaned into your touch, utterly shameless in his submission to you.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he mused with a lazy smirk. “I might start thinking you enjoy having me like this.”

Oh, you did. And judging by the way he all but melted into your hands, he did too.