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“I’ve imagined this,” he says, stepping close again. His fingers drift up my spine, barely brushing. “What you’d look like. What you’d sound like.”

“Please don’t say I’m beautiful,” I mutter, half-panicked. “I’ll explode. Just combust. Like a Victorian widow overcome by your overwhelming masculine presence.”

His mouth brushes mine, slow and deliberate. “You are beautiful.”

“Oh gods.”

“But I’m not saying it for you,” he adds, nipping lightly at my jaw. “I’m saying it for me.”

He kisses down my throat, every movement of his mouth hot and patient. My trousers are gone. My shirt is gone. I’m left in nothing but my underwear, and he’s still half-dressed—trousers low on his hips, dark against his golden skin, the curve of his cock already thick and pressing tight behind the fabric.

I reach for the waistband.

He catches my wrist.

“Not yet.”

“Orin—”

He brings my hand to his mouth, kisses each fingertip with slow, measured reverence. “You said yes to me. To this. To us. Let me have this moment, Luna.”

“I’ll die.”

“You’ll survive.” His mouth brushes the inside of my palm. “You’ll come.”

I whimper.

And then he finally reaches for the button of his trousers.

His eyes don’t leave mine—not even as he unfastens the clasp, as he slides the fabric down those long, strong legs. He steps out of them without a single wasted movement. No shame. No hesitation.

Gods.

His cock is flushed, the head slick and swollen. My whole body lights up like a ward’s been broken—like now that I’ve seen him, I won’t ever forget the shape of him, the weight of what he’s about to do to me.

He moves in close, so close our bodies almost touch. One hand cups the back of my neck. The other slides between my thighs again, and this time there’s nothing in the way. His fingers stroke me slowly, spreading wetness, coaxing soft, shattered sounds from my throat I didn’t even know I could make.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, like he’s already known it for hours. “And this—” he presses his thumb where I need him most “—is all mine now.”

I want to answer. I want to say something sexy or clever or just vaguely coherent.

Instead I blurt out, “I forgot how to speak English.”

His smile is slow and devastating. “You don’t need to speak.”

He guides me down—gentle but firm—until my back touches the soft moss beneath the willow. The leaves above tremble with every breath. My hair fans out around me. His body follows mine down, covering me without crushing. His thigh pushes between mine. His hand slides up, palm flattening between my ribs, over my sternum.

His gaze drops to my mouth. “You’ll feel everything,” he says. “Every part of me. The bond won’t let you lie. You’re about to find out how much I want you.”

He shifts between my thighs, and the moment his cock brushes against me—hot, heavy, slick with my arousal—I forget how to breathe.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says softly, low and barely human. “I’ll stop. I’ll wait.”

“I don’t want you to wait,” I whisper. “I want you inside me.”

His eyes darken at that—like the restraint he’s been holding onto by his teeth just snapped loose.

“Then you take me,” he murmurs, “exactly as I am.”