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It’s not soft.

It’s not even sweet.

It’s slow. Deep. Possessive without being aggressive, like he wants to memorize every part of my mouth. His hand finally slips beneath my waistband, but he still doesn’t rush. He teases. He draws it out—his fingers tracing my skin, not quite touching what I need, like he wants to hear me ask.

And I am dangerously close to begging.

“I’ve thought about this,” I murmur against his mouth. “I’ve thought about you for weeks. About what you’d feel like. Aboutyour hands. About your mouth. And your—” I look down. Immediately regret it. “Gods.”

He presses a kiss to the underside of my jaw. “What about it?”

“It looks… wise.”

He actually laughs. “Wise.”

“Yeah. Like it knows things. Like it’s studied ancient texts.”

“Do you want it?”

My breath hitches. “Yes. Please.”

He drops to his knees again. And this time, when his hands slip inside my pants, he doesn’t tease. He doesn’t hesitate. He slides one palm over me with a deliberate slowness that makes my knees buckle. He groans softly when he feels how wet I am.

“Gods, Luna.”

“You’re not helping!”

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh, then another, then another—each one higher, slower, hungrier.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“I’m malfunctioning.”

He kisses me again, then finally—finally—touches me properly. Fingers sliding over me, precise and patient. My head drops back against the willow as I gasp, loud and shameless. I feel unmade already, and he hasn’t even started.

And then his mouth—

Gods, his mouth.

He worships me. He eats me like it’s sacred, like I’m the first thing he’s tasted in centuries, like his entire purpose has been reduced to this: making me unravel in his mouth. I come with a sob, loud and wrecked, my fingers tangled in the willow’s branches to keep from collapsing entirely.

His mouth leaves me slowly, deliberately, like he’s reluctant to stop tasting me. My whole body is molten. Boneless. My thighs are still shaking, my pulse crashing somewhere in my throat. I’m not sure I remember how to exist outside of his mouth.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casual and composed like he didn’t just ruin me with his tongue. And then he looks at me—his gaze dragging down the length of my half-naked body like he’s already memorized every inch and plans to worship it all over again.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly.

“You did that,” I manage, voice cracked and breathless.

He nods, like he’s proud of it. “And I’m not done.”

“Luna,” he murmurs again, and this time it’s not reverent.

It’s possessive.

His hands come to the hem of my shirt without asking—not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows. I already said yes. My magic is already tangled in his, humming low and open. I don’t move to help him. I want to feel the way he undresses me. I want to be stripped by him, slow and unflinching, like he’s opening a secret I’ve been too afraid to touch.

He lifts the fabric slowly, knuckles grazing my ribs, dragging over the underside of my breasts until my arms lift without thinking. He tosses it to the grass like it’s never going to matter again. And then he looks at me—and the sound he makes in his throat…It’s low. Raw. Like I’ve just answered something ancient inside him.