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“Tend to the food,” he muttered.

“Why?” I asked, still breathless.

“Because if I don’t,” he said, “I won’t stop at a kiss. And I want you to be sure when you let me consume you...you’re ready for it.”

I swallowed hard, the promise in his voice making my knees weak.

“And you need to eat. I would be lacking in my duties if I put my needs ahead of yours,” he added.

Something warm infused my chest. It was nice to have someone to look after you, and care for you.

I should’ve left it go at that; he told me to, after all. He’d given me an out; a warning. And yet—I stayed. Because under all that command and control, I saw it.

Hunger.

Not just for food or flesh—but for closeness, for something real. Something that couldn’t be cooked or conjured or devoured in a single sitting.

And if Gluttony thought I’d be afraid of that, he didn’t know me very well yet.

So I stayed perched on the counter, my legs swinging slowly back and forth like I wasn’t vibrating inside from the taste of hismouth. As he worked on the food I took out the bottle, uncorked it, and drank the entire thing in one go.

Holy fuck.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice rougher than before, not quite a question as he turned around and saw me. Still there.

My hands shook as raw need coursed through my veins.

Perhaps drinking raw lust and sex magick had been a bad idea.

“I’ve been told I’m quite stubborn. Not unlike someone else I know.”

He stilled, a beat passing as though weighing his next move. He hadn’t seen me down the bottle, but he knew something was off. Heavy magick swirled in the air.

Then Gluttony set the glass aside and placed his hands flat on either side of me, pinning me between his arms. Not touching yet. Just there. Heavy. Intent.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting,” he said slowly.

I tilted my head, eyes not leaving his. “I think I do. I’m invitingyou.All of you. Stop pretending that doesn’t matter.”

Something cracked behind his eyes.

Then his hand curled around the back of my neck—not roughly, but with purpose—and his mouth found mine again.

It was different this time.

Slower.

Darker.

His tongue slid past my lips in a lazy sweep that promised indulgence, not just urgency. The kind of kiss that tasted like wine and decadence and late nights you never forget.

He drank the liquified lust that lingered on my lips.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmured, kissing the corner of my mouth, then lower—along my jaw, my throat, the hollow beneath my ear.

“You taste like cinnamon and control issues,” I gasped, threading my fingers into his hair.

His laugh was dark and low, but it died in his throat when I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him flush against me.