Kiss (Ch 3)

Wherein candlelight, ritual, and poetry converge; two souls slip from performance into revelation, and words become devotion made flesh.

« previous chapter | next chapter »

---

Lys had dimmed the overheads and lit two tapered candles, slender and unscented. Their flames glowed amber against the matte walls and danced faintly across the coffee table, where a black linen folio waited, centered with ceremonial exactness. Pale ivory pages peeked from within, stark as bone.

The apartment was small, but everything in it spoke of intention. It didn’t merely house its occupant—it reflected her: clean-lined furniture in dove grey and slate blue, the kind of mid-century restraint that drew the eye without demanding attention. A pair of slender floor lamps cast soft elliptical halos on the ceiling. The living room opened directly into the kitchen, divided only by a white-veined marble peninsula with two sculptural stools tucked beneath it.

Near the windows, two large panes of glass framed the city skyline in twilight. The buildings shimmered like carved onyx, lit from within. Below, traffic moved in a slow hush—more suggestion than sound.

When the knock came, she took one last glance around the room, confirming that everything was ready. She padded barefoot to the door, the deep teal silk of her robe whispering against her thighs. It was tied loosely—casual, but not careless. Her hair was down, brushed smooth; her mouth bore only a thin layer of berry stain. Her expression was composed. She opened the door.

“Dellen.” She spoke his name as though it were a title.

“Lys,” he returned, stepping into the apartment. His coat was dark wool, his jaw freshly shaved. A faint scent of cedar and citrus clung to him—elegant, expensive, barely perceptible.

“Make yourself at home,” she offered, stepping aside.

He locked the door behind him—a habit, not a flourish—and hung his coat on the standing rack before stooping to remove his shoes, lining them neatly beneath. Straightening again, he cast a look around the room. “Nice place.”

“Thanks. Did you get in alright?”

“Your doorman looks like he moonlights as private security.”

“He does,” she replied, “for someone on the penthouse floor.”

She handed him a glass of water—large, cold, beaded with condensation. “I got your text.”

He accepted it and drank deeply, nearly draining it in a single pull. “Thank you. Forgot to hydrate properly after my workout.”

“I’ve got harder stuff if you want it,” she said, gesturing toward the peninsula. On a polished walnut tray, four decanters—whiskey, armagnac, amaro, and dark vermouth—sat elegantly labeled with maker and year. Two crystal tumblers and a dish of lemon peel twists completed the arrangement.

“I’ll let you choose your own sin.”

He looked over the tray, then back at her. “You spoil me.”

“Only temporarily,” she replied breezily.

He raised a brow. “Promises, promises.”

She allowed herself the shadow of a smile.

“Is the folio here?” he asked.

She nodded toward the coffee table. “Bound in black, as requested. Ivory pages. No additions since I sent it.”

He glanced at it—sharp edges, linen binding, crisp paper—and back to her. “First time I’ve seen it printed. Nice choice of materials.”

“I thought it deserved weight.”

“You gave it gravitas,” he murmured.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “More gravitas than you?”

He laughed softly, rich and genuine. “Touché.”

She smiled at that and moved past him, her robe brushing his sleeve. As she did, she paused and studied him.

“You’re a little quiet tonight,” she observed. Not an accusation. Just curiosity.

“New space,” he replied easily, the faintest lift of his shoulders. “Just calibrating.”

Her gaze held his for a moment longer. Then she let it go. “Fair enough.”

A shift passed through her, subtle but intentional. “Since this is your first time here,” she said, voice taking on a slightly more formal cadence, “I should probably give you a tour.”

“Please.”

She led the way, silk trailing at her calves, and he followed—outwardly calm, but inwardly aware of the folded paper burning in his trouser pocket. A risk, already chosen.

She guided him through the compact layout with practiced ease. The bedroom was last. Modest, but carefully composed: navy and ivory bedding, a wide upholstered headboard, and twin nightstands in unsettling symmetry. One held a carafe and tumbler; the other, a minimalist clock with no visible brand. The air smelled faintly of lavender and linen.

She opened drawers as they passed: “Lube, condoms, gloves.”

Then: “Toys.”

A slim dresser drawer: “Blindfolds. Wrist cuffs. Ankle cuffs. All soft.”

Finally, a low chest at the foot of the bed. She turned a small brass key and lifted the lid.

“Rope. Impact toys. Paddles. Whips. Harder restraints. Ball gags. Collars. A posture collar. Two breath control masks I rarely use…remnants from my younger, riskier days.”

Dellen said nothing. But he memorized everything: the organization, the logic, the readiness. Not just tools. A system.

She closed the lid. “I know. It’s a lot.”

“No judgment.”

“Do you want me to write any of this down?”

He shook his head. “It’s all in my mind palace.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow. “You’re one of those, are you?”

“Worked for Cicero,” he said breezily.

“So it did.”

A breath passed between them, warm with anticipation.

“Anything you’d like to gather before we begin?” she asked.

“A blindfold. And a wand. Something that can be both gentle and intense.”

She selected a teal silk blindfold to match her robe, and a wand he recognized. She handed them over. He nodded.

“Perfect.”

They moved together back through the apartment. The hallway felt narrower now, thickened with purpose. The candles flickered, painting slow golden arcs across the coffee table, where the black folio remained untouched, awaiting invocation.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“One moment.”

He stepped toward the tray and surveyed the bottles. His fingers moved lightly over each label—each one chosen, not random. He paused at the Glenlivet, then poured two fingers into a crystal tumbler with practiced ease. The scent of peat and oak rose briefly in the warm air.

“Oh—almost forgot,” Lys said. She crossed to a side table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Latest STD test,” she said, handing it to him.

“Right.” He opened it and scanned. “All clear. Thanks.”

She nodded once. “Yours?”

He crossed to his coat, reached into the inner pocket, and returned with a neatly folded page. She read it thoroughly and gave a small approving nod.

“Good.”

Without ceremony, she slid his paper into a tidy stack inside the drawer. He did the same with hers, returning it carefully to his coat.

By the time they reconvened in the living room, something between them had shifted. She now stood at the room’s center, facing the coffee table where the folio still waited, square and solemn. The candlelight drew soft geometry across her collarbones. Her posture had stilled, but not stiffened.

Dellen picked up his glass and carried it to the black marble side table beside the sofa. He set it down with care. Something about the act—small, ordinary—sounded final.

Then, with calm hands, he began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. The first parted easily. Then the second. The third. His movements were unhurried. Measured. As he rolled his sleeves to mid-forearm, the fabric whispered against his skin with that soft, ritualistic hush.

He watched her as he moved. Not her body, her breath. Her composure. The subtle shift in her gaze. Her eyes tracked him without turning predatory; she was measuring, not consuming. A different kind of hunger lived there.

He stepped to her. Her robe still cinched loosely, the knot resting just above her hip. He lifted his hands to the tie and undid it gently. The silk slithered free with no resistance, parting from her shoulders and slipping down her arms in a slow cascade. He caught it before it touched the ground, folding it once, then again, over his arm.

She remained still. Her eyes lowered. Her body bore a quiet sheen—not theatrical, not slick. A luminous glow. A different lotion, perhaps, with more emollient than she usually used. Under the candlelight it made her skin gleam in soft museum tones, highlighting the curvature of her hip, the length of her spine, the roundness of her shoulder. He realized it wasn’t accidental. This was her space: she had chosen the light, the textures, the angles, all with attention to how she would be presented. The effect was high art. Never garish, never gratuitous.

He carried the robe to one of the stools at the peninsula and draped it with the same care he’d used on the paper. Then he returned to her, each step quieter than the last. When he stopped, they were nearly touching. The space between them felt like the space between breaths.

He lifted one hand, palm up. “Shall we?”

Her mouth curved slightly, almost imperceptibly. “We shall.”

She held his gaze for a beat longer, anchoring herself. Then she descended, a slow and economical kneel—graceful, grounded, precise. Her knees spread just enough to open her posture, her hands resting gently atop her thighs, palms down for now. Her chin dipped—not bowed, only inclined. A signal: she was not yielding to be possessed. She was presenting herself to be guided.

Dellen stepped around her once, silent and clockwise, the wand and blindfold still in hand. At the coffee table, he placed them beside the folio with quiet deliberation, as if preparing instruments in a sacred rite.

Then he returned and stood before her again, close enough for the hem of his trousers to graze her lowered gaze. He didn’t speak. Not yet. He let the silence draw out like steam curling above a cup. Her breath remained steady. Stillness gathered between them—not absence of motion, but presence held taut in restraint.

At last, he reached for the folio. The linen cover gave slightly beneath his palm, the paper fibrous, almost yielding. He opened it slowly, the page turning with the hush of silk on silk.

He opened the folio and turned to a page near the beginning. No notations, no marks. That, in itself, drew his attention. Sometimes, what wasn’t circled revealed more than what was.

“I’ve chosen this for your first lesson,” he said. “A journey inward, by way of surrender.”

Lys knelt in perfect stillness. Legs apart, back straight, hands resting on her thighs. The candlelight curled along her collarbone. She did not lift her gaze.

“Yes, Dellen.”

He stepped in closer. “You may touch yourself. Only when I read. When I pause, you pause. You’re not to chase sensation. You are to let it find you.”

“Yes, Dellen.”

Her hand moved. No flourish, no haste, just reverent obedience. Fingers slipped downward with the precision of someone trained in restraint. Her other hand braced against her knee. Her head remained bowed.

Dellen watched for a breath, then began:

Into My Own by Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,

So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,

Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,

But stretched away unto the edge of doom…

His voice softened on the final lines, letting them linger like breath on glass. She had stopped just before he did, breath catching mid-stroke. He could see it: the words had struck something. He closed the folio and placed it aside.

“What did you hear?”

Her voice was quiet, but unwavering. “The dark trees aren’t the danger. They’re the unknown. The version of ourselves we only meet when we walk through the woods—when we leave behind the road.”

He circled behind her. “And why do you come here?”

She paused. Her fingers had stilled. Her breath caught.

“To disappear,” she said. “Not into fantasy. Into this. Into the version of myself I find in the dark.”

“Say it again,” he murmured. “While you move.”

Her fingers resumed, slow and steady. “I disappear…to find myself.”

“Stop.”

She obeyed instantly. Her thighs trembled with restraint. Her hands returned to rest.

“You understand now,” he said, “that submission isn’t about following the familiar. It’s about surrendering to the unknown. That’s where it begins.”

“Yes, Dellen.”

“Good. Rest.”

He closed the folio gently, then opened it to a new page, farther in.

“This one is older,” he said, stepping closer to her. “Seventeenth century.”

Lys knelt in silence, her breath steady. Her hands still rested lightly on her thighs.

Dellen continued, voice steady but quiet: “This is not a seduction. It’s a prayer. But worship and submission—those are kin.”

She nodded. “Yes, Dellen.”

“Touch yourself. But not with hunger. Not for climax. This time, your body is the offering.”

Her hand moved again, slower than before. This time there was no seduction in it, only grace. Her fingers parted her flesh like one might turn pages in a sacred text.

He began to read:

Discipline by George Herbert

Throw away thy rod,

Throw away thy wrath:

O my God,

Take the gentle path…

The words filled the space like smoke: soft but pungent, lingering in the body longer than the ear. Her fingers moved in rhythm, but not with urgency. She wasn’t chasing anything. She was becoming something. When he reached the final line, he let the silence speak.

“Stop.”

She froze. Hands fell still. Her chest rose and fell.

“What did you hear?”

“That love isn’t indulgent,” she murmured. “It’s sharp. Shaping. That discipline is a form of attention. That mercy can wound, and still be love.”

He crouched beside her, close. “And what kind of love?”

She hesitated, then: “Not romantic. Devotional. The kind that chooses you and breaks you open to rebuild you.”

He nodded. “Not the love of a suitor. The love of a god.”

She inhaled sharply at that, but said nothing.

“In this space,” he said, voice low and unwavering, “I am that god. You kneel not to be broken, but to be made.”

“Yes, Dellen.”

“Say it.”

“I kneel to be made. I yield to you as my god in this dynamic.”

“Again. While you move.”

Her fingers resumed, slow and reverent.

“I kneel to be made. I yield to you as my god in this dynamic.”

Her voice trembled on the last word, arousal edging into the syllables.

“Stop.”

She obeyed at once, spine still tall, thighs trembling from the tension of restraint.

He stood slowly. The flicker in his eyes now was not desire. It was awe.

“You understand,” he said, “what it means to offer yourself.”

Dellen turned a page in the folio and rested his hand there a moment, gaze steady.

“This next one,” he said, “is about pleasure. But not indulgence. Not for its own sake.”

He stepped closer. “It’s about offering. About how pleasure, given freely, becomes its own kind of devotion.”

Lys nodded. “Yes, Dellen.”

“I want you to touch yourself again,” he said. “But not to build. You are to gather sensation. Hold it. Contain it. The cup is not for you.”

“It’s for you,” she whispered.

He gave a single nod, then began.

On Pleasure by Kahlil Gibran

Go to your fields and your gardens,

and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee

to gather honey of the flower,

But it is also the pleasure of the flower

to yield its honey to the bee…

His voice softened near the end, letting the final line land like an invocation.

…And to both, bee and flower,

the giving and receiving of pleasure

is a need and an ecstasy.

When he closed the folio, she was still moving—slow, precise. Her breath trembled but did not break.

“Stop.”

Her hand froze. Her body stilled.

“What did you hear?”

“That pleasure…” Her voice was low, but clear. “Real pleasure…is not taken. It’s offered. And when it is—when it’s received—it comes back as something transformed.”

“And your role in that exchange?”

“I yield,” she said. “So you may gather.”

He stepped behind her. “And who is the flower?”

“I am.”

“And what is her purpose?”

“To offer.”

He moved to stand in front of her again, close enough to see the faint shimmer of effort on her skin.

“The pleasure in this space,” he said, “is not indulgent. It is sacred. Worship is not passive. Service is not empty. And you—”

He let the words hang, then finished them low and deliberate.

“—are here to be used. Not in cruelty. In purpose.”

“Yes, Dellen.”

“And who am I, in that purpose?”

She drew a breath, slow and shaking. “You are…the god of my pleasure.”

“Say it all,” he said. “As a vow. While you move.”

She resumed, her fingers gliding with reverence.

“I am the flower. I yield so you may gather. You are the one who feeds from me…who gives me meaning. You are the god of my pleasure.”

Her body trembled. Her voice cracked.

“Stop.”

She obeyed. He watched her chest rise and fall, the tension coiled beneath her skin like a live wire held still. He stepped forward and held the blindfold between his fingers.

“You’ve learned what it is to give pleasure,” he said softly. “Now you will learn what it is to receive.”

She didn’t move as he lowered the blindfold over her eyes and tied it behind her head. Her pulse was visible now—at her throat, her wrist, just beneath the skin of her lower belly. The light around them flickered. The city beyond the windows had faded. Only the breath between them remained. And still, she did not reach for anything. She merely waited.

Behind her, Dellen paused at the knot a moment longer than necessary, watching the rise and fall of her ribcage. Then he stepped quietly to the sofa where the folio lay open. From his trouser pocket, he drew out the folded sheet that had pressed against his thigh all evening—his poem, his risk. He slid it between the pages like contraband and smoothed the folio open across his lap, his palm grounding him before he began.

His voice, when it came, was lower and steadier than he expected:

I would kiss you like silence after sound—

not the hush that follows noise,

but the hush that makes you listen.

I would kiss you as a man who has learned

the body does not bloom by force

but by heat and patience

and the slow circling of breath around a single spark.

I would kiss where words fail—

the corner of your mouth when it is soft,

your throat when it arches for air,

the place behind your ear where your yes begins.

I would kiss not to conquer but to receive—

to take the weight of your stillness,

the heat of your welcome,

the shape of your surrender as it spills down my spine like a vow.

And I would not stop

until you forgot the kiss was mine

and remembered only that you wanted it again.

The last line faded into the hush of the room. She knelt blindfolded before him, her right hand still moving slowly between her thighs as instructed. But a furrow had appeared just above the blindfold, and her lips were no longer parted in open breath but drawn into a small, concentrated line. She was still obeying, but her mind had begun to race. Her fingers maintained their rhythm, perfect in pace and pressure, while her thoughts spun elsewhere.

He drank in the moment. It was the contrast he loved most: the body under his command, the mind slipping into speculation. These were the moments he built his sessions for—where surrender became conscious, layered, and alive.

She inhaled, drawing herself back to the ritual. “What I heard,” she said slowly, “was not just a kiss described.”

He said nothing.

“It was an act of attention. Of receiving. The kind of touch that doesn’t consume but witnesses. That doesn’t demand, but waits.” Her voice faltered on the next words. “It sounded like an instruction…but also like a confession.”

She paused, breath shallow, thighs trembling. Her fingers still moved with precision, though her chest trembled now from uncertainty rather than exhaustion. “And the voice,” she added softly, “felt familiar.”

No answer came. He let her sit a little longer in the tension, her body still in ritual while her mind searched for the origin of the poem, for what he’d risked by including it. Then, finally, he moved.

He stood, smooth and purposeful, and lowered himself to kneel in front of her. The act was quiet but unmistakable. A Dom kneeling before his submissive was not capitulation—it was offering. And in that offering was everything she had earned.

He reached out and stopped her hand, guiding it up to his mouth. He drew her fingers in, tasting her slowly, reverently, his tongue circling their tips before sucking them one by one. She trembled. He felt the flutter in her, the sudden hitch in her breath, the strain of holding still while her nerves flooded with sensation.

Still holding her hand, he let his other fingers slide between her thighs, gathering her wetness with a practiced pressure. He brought those fingers to her mouth, and she opened without hesitation, taking him in with slow devotion, her tongue sweeping across his skin. Her eyes were still hidden, but her mouth told the truth: hunger, gratitude, willingness to go deeper than words.

He withdrew his fingers and released her hand. Then, with quiet care, he untied the blindfold, folded it once, and set it aside. Her pupils were wide from the dark. She blinked against the low light, candle flames flickering across his face.

And she saw him—kneeling before her, mirroring her posture. His hands rested on his thighs, not poised to act, simply present. Still. A question flickered in his eyes now, visible but unspoken.

Her lips parted. “Dellen…” she whispered, her voice trailing off. But the silence had been broken.

A smile began to form at the corner of his mouth, slow and genuine, tempered by the gravity of what had just passed between them.

“Did you like my twist?” he asked, his voice low but laced with warmth.

She laughed softly—a breathy, nervous sound, the kind that slipped out before she could control it. It wasn’t a laugh of mockery or disbelief, but one of awe. She exhaled with it, as though the tension still coiled beneath her ribs had finally found its exit. “It certainly kept me guessing.”

As the laughter faded, her gaze found him again, more focused now. There was something new in her eyes—a softened clarity, something between respect and adoration, as if she were seeing not just the Dom who had guided her through the ritual, but the man who had risked revealing something of himself in doing so.

“You invoked last session’s amendment very cleverly,” she said. “Well played indeed.”

He inclined his head in return, but the gesture was more than acknowledgement. It was something slower, deeper—a bow that belonged to the space between reverence and recognition. Not a Dom signaling dominance. A man honoring his partner.

Her voice, now steadier, came again. “Have we reached the end?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then offered the words that always closed their scenes—ritual, familiar, precise.

“We have.”

She nodded once, the motion small but meaningful. Her eyes drifted shut for a brief second as she drew in a long, slow breath, one that filled her entirely. She held it at the top for a moment, then let it out with audible intention. The release traveled through her shoulders, down her spine, through her fingertips. The shift in energy was tangible—the ritual had ended.

“Thank you for your gift of space,” she said, and there was no affectation in the words, no role left to play. It was simple, sincere.

Dellen’s reply came gently, but without hesitation. “Thank you for filling it with your presence.”

And that was it. The scene was complete.

Lys remained kneeling for a moment longer before her posture softened, her hand rising instinctively to her chest. She pressed her palm against her sternum, as if steadying the beat beneath her skin. Her breath was still heavy, but now it was her own again—unstructured, unobserved.

“That was…” she murmured, and a smile crept back onto her face, almost shy this time. “Intense.”

Dellen rolled his shoulders, tilting his head until his neck cracked, only now aware of the tension he’d been carrying.

Lys rose and crossed to the kitchen, retrieving her robe from the stool. She shrugged into it, cinching the waist loosely, then poured a measure of vermouth, dropped in a cube of ice, and twisted a lemon peel into the glass.

Dellen, still seated on the rug, watched her through lowered lashes, tracking the way her body moved. Even in post-scene ritual, she was elegant. She returned to the sofa and sank into the corner, patting the cushion beside her.

He retrieved his untouched glass of Glenlivet and joined her. The whisky was flat and warm, but grounding. He sat close but not touching, and took a sip.

“So,” she asked, swirling her drink, “how long has that poem been burning a hole in your pocket?”

He smiled, gaze dropping. “A little over a week. I kept tweaking it right up until this afternoon.”

She turned to the window, letting the city lights fill her view. “It was very lovely.”

He swallowed. “Not quite on Gibran’s level.”

“No,” she agreed, “but not everything needs to be iconic to be appreciated.”

“If you’re about to say it’s the thought that counts, please don’t—spare my ego.”

She laughed—a real, unguarded laugh, colored not just by the warmth of the vermouth but by the emotional release of the scene. “I’m not that cruel. Am I?”

He met her gaze for the first time since the poem. “In all professions, women are at least as cruel as men.”

She smiled, recognizing the quote…and the part he had left unsaid. She could have responded with a clever retort, but instead she turned her head slightly and looked at him with a kind of amused softness.

“I love your mind,” she said simply.

He looked down at his glass, then back at her. And for the first time all evening, he let himself smile fully. Without warning, she lay her head against his shoulder. Dellen hesitated, then placed an arm gently around her. His heart fluttered. The intimacy of this moment unnerved him more than anything they’d done.

They sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the city filtering in through the windows. After a while, her voice came softly. “Why didn’t you choose any of the female poets from the folio?” There was no accusation in her tone, only curiosity.

He gave a small, thoughtful nod. “No particular reason,” he said. “The others just spoke to me more.”

She pulled back slightly. “What about the Grimké poem?”

“Which one was that?”

She recited from memory then, with the lilt of someone who had carried the words for years.

I should like to creep

Through the long brown grasses

That are your lashes…

When she finished he nodded slowly. “I remember now. I’d heard of her but didn’t know her work. She has a lot of really gorgeous poems. That one’s about lesbian attraction, isn’t it?”

Lys nodded slowly, taking another sip. “It is, but that doesn’t mean it’s not relatable. I discovered Grimké in college. She’s not well known, but her poetry always stuck with me.”

“Maybe you relate to her,” he said gently, “as a biracial woman navigating a white world?” He was proud of himself for doing his homework.

Lys gave a small laugh under her breath. “Actually, I’m not biracial,” she said. “I’m just a light‑skinned Black woman—the culmination of several generations of…let’s call it selective reproduction.”

Dellen was caught between curiosity and caution. “I’m not sure how to respond to that,” he said carefully.

“You probably shouldn’t,” she replied, amusement warming her tone. “But I see you’re still testing our boundaries.”

He sipped his drink, swallowing silently.

“Do you feel like you can’t keep going unless you know more about me?” she asked.

He looked up, earnest now, and sighed. “I’ve been doing this for nearly a year, and no one else comes close to what I’ve felt with you. It’s just…I’ve never had this much chemistry with someone I know so little about, and it feels strange.”

She nodded. It made sense.

He looked out at the skyline. “Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t want to know more about me.”

Lys set her glass down on the table with a quiet clink and faced him. She reached for his hands and took them gently into her own.

“Tell me, Dellen,” she said, her voice low and reverent, “what’s your favorite color?”

The question caught him off guard—but only just.

“Cerulean,” he answered, dutifully.

She released his hands with a satisfied nod and leaned back. “There,” she said, lifting her glass again and taking a sip, “now I know more about you.”

He shook his head slowly, grinning. “Well now…turnabout is fair play.”

Lys laughed, head tilting back slightly. “No, no, I already gave you something.”

He crossed his arms and stared her down. His silence was theatrical, but his eyes remained fixed on her with mock severity.

“Fine,” she relented, holding up one hand in defeat. “Turquoise.”

“Turquoise,” he repeated. “Not too far from me on the spectrum.”

Lys placed her arm next to his, contrasting her deep glowing butterscotch with his olive tone. “Not too far off here either.”

“And yet,” he mused, “somehow you are Black, and I am white.”

Lys threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Even more information I didn’t need to know about you!”

He chuckled. “Wait until I tell you what color my cock is,” he whispered, his voice low and wicked.

She gave him a playful shove that toppled him backward into the cushions, but as he fell he pulled her with him. She laughed and landed on top of him, then propped her chin on her hands, grinning impishly. His hand came to rest lightly against her hip, the other nestled behind his head, and he looked up at her with a faint smile.

“You forgot to use the wand,” she said, voice low and teasing.

He arched a brow, eyes steady on hers. “Didn’t need it,” he replied coolly.

Her grin widened, pleasure blooming in her expression. She looked radiant in that moment—smug and glowing and still catching her breath from their earlier intensity. Then, without a word, she kissed him gently on the cheek. He froze, savoring it. Tried not to read into it—and failed miserably.

She rolled off him before he could speak, took a final sip, and stood. “C’mon,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the bedroom. “Let’s make the most of the night before it ends.”

He watched her walk, the silk robe swaying as she vanished around a corner. He drained his glass and followed, and as he moved another poem came to mind. One by the same poet she’d just recited. One she hadn’t included in the folio. He understood why, but still—it had stayed with him.

El Beso by Angelina Weld Grimké

Twilight—and you

Quiet—the stars;

Snare of the shine of your teeth,

Your provocative laughter,

The gloom of your hair;

Lure of you, eye and lip;

Yearning, yearning,

Languor, surrender;

Your mouth,

And madness, madness,

Tremulous, breathless, flaming,

The space of a sigh;

Then awakening—remembrance,

Pain, regret—your sobbing;

And again, quiet—the stars,

Twilight—and you.