The night air in Wycliffe was cool, laced with the scent of lavender. The manor's halls had long since gone silent with only the muted crackle of hearths and the whisper of old wood shifting in its frame stirred the quiet.
Evelyn stood at the window of her chambers, arms wrapped around herself, heart skittish beneath silk. The moon glowed pale over the gardens, silvering the stone paths and bare rosebushes. Her reflection in the glass looked like someone else, poised, noble and untouchable.
But inside, a storm was building.
She heard the knock before she saw him.
The door creaked open, and Nathaniel stood at the threshold, his expression unreadable. He wore no coat, only his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled high on his forearms. His hair was damp, as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times.
Neither of them spoke at first.
He stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.
The room was dimly lit. No candles beyond the ones flickering near the large canopy bed. Heavy velvet drapes had been drawn over the windows, enclosing her in a world of shadows and murmuring firelight.
"I wasn't sure if you would come," she said softly.
"Neither was I."
Nathaniel stood near the hearth, removing his cufflinks with deliberate ease. His coat had already been discarded, draped over the back of a chair. He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her, and then looked back at the flames.
"You're not afraid of fire, are you?" he asked.
Evelyn flinched at the low timbre of his voice. It was not unkind, but not exactly warm either. Something about it unnerved her, the way he made everything sound like a challenge.
"No," she said, trying to steady her voice.
"Good." He moved to pour himself a drink from a crystal decanter. "Because fear is a troublesome bedfellow."
She didn't know how to respond to that.
He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. She didn't retreat. His presence filled the space like smoke, dark and consuming.
When he reached her, he didn't touch her. He stood close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest.
> "I told myself I'd give you time," he murmured. "But tonight, God help me, Evelyn...I haven't stopped thinking of you since you arrived."
He closed the distance and kissed her fierce, claiming, but not cruel. His hands cupped her face as if she were something fragile, a rare thing he'd waited too long to hold. She melted into him, her fingers grasping the fabric at his chest, clutching him closer.
The kiss deepened, hungry and slow, tasting of wine and restraint unraveling.
His hands slipped to her waist, then her back, finding the buttons of her gown one by one. Each came undone like a sigh, the silk parting over her skin until she stood trembling in only her chemise. He looked down at her, his eyes darkened, reverent.
Evelyn stood there stiffly, her face flushed. Her corseted chest rising and falling in tight, shallow breaths.
Nathaniel pulled away and went to pour two glasses of wine. He handed her a glass of brandy, his long fingers brushing hers.
"To new beginnings," he said, his eyes scanning her face.
She swallowed both the toast and the brandy. It burned its way down, awakening something unfamiliar inside her.
He set his own glass down untouched. "You may remove your gown, Lady Wycliffe."
She blinked. "What?"
He didn't smile. "You heard me."
She stood frozen. "There is usually... a maid..."
"There's no need. I wish to see you. Entirely."
Her stomach twisted. She wasn't naive, no well-bred woman of her station was but this? This was not what she had imagined of a wedding night. No gentle undressing. No whispered reassurances. No soft kisses to ease the nerves.
Just a command.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the pearl buttons on the back of her bodice. Nathaniel did not move to help her. He only watched, his eyes sharp, unwavering. Her fingers fumbled, and she turned away slightly, struggling with the final row.
"No," he said. "Face me."
Her cheeks flushed, but she obeyed.
The gown slipped off her shoulders and fell in a whisper of silk to the floor. She stood in her chemise, shivering not from cold, but from something else. Anticipation. Fear or shame. She didn't know which one exactly.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. With one hand, he slid the strap of her chemise off her shoulder. It fell lower... lower...
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I... I'm not used to being looked at this way."
"You'll learn."
His fingers skimmed down her arm, barely touching, and yet every part of her felt scorched.
"Do you know what I want from you, Evelyn?"
She shook her head.
"I want everything. Your obedience. Your surrender. Your fire."
Her breath caught.
He reached up, brushing a knuckle over her lower lip. "You're not a girl anymore. You're mine now."
Then, with a swift movement, he kissed her again. Hungry, full, and entirely unlike anything she'd expected. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was claiming and dominant. Ruthlessly sensual.
Her knees nearly gave out.
He caught her by the waist, lifting her onto the bed as if she weighed nothing. His shirt unbuttoned. The firelight kissed the hard planes of his chest, shadows painting every line of muscle.
He loomed over her, his gaze burning through her. "Do you want me to stop?"
She didn't answer. What could she say. No? This was bound to happen sooner or later.
He leaned closer, his mouth at her ear. "Say it."
"I..." Her voice cracked.
"Say you want this."
A long silence stretched between them. Then, softly, too softly she whispered:
"Yes."
Nathaniel's breath warmed her cheek as he hovered over her, as still and focused as a predator. Evelyn could barely meet his gaze, though she felt it on her like a touch; searing, knowing and impossible to escape.
"Good," he said.
His mouth descended on hers again, but this kiss was slower, deeper. He savored her as if he meant to consume her one inch at a time. She felt his tongue tease at her lips, coaxing a soft gasp from her throat. He took the sound greedily, groaning against her mouth as his fingers threaded into her hair.
She clutched at the sheets beneath her, unsure of what to do, how to move, how to breathe.
"You're still trembling," he whispered.
"I can't help it."
His hand trailed down her side, over the soft fabric of her chemise, then slipped beneath the hem. She flinched at the touch, so foreign, electric. He didn't pull away. His palm flattened over her thigh, warm and possessive.
"Then let me show you," he murmured, "how pleasure silences fear."
Her eyes fluttered shut.
His hands moved with infuriating patience, drawing the chemise up over her hips, baring her inch by inch. She felt the air cool against her skin as her thighs, her belly, and finally her breasts were exposed to him. She covered herself instinctively.
He caught her wrists. "No hiding."
"Please..." she breathed, shamed by how helpless she felt.
"You are exquisite," he said, pressing her wrists down beside her head. "And you are mine."
His hand slid between her thighs, coaxing her open. She was already wet, aching for him, and he groaned softly at the feel of her.
"You're perfect," he said against her skin. "So warm. So ready."
His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses from her collarbone to the swell of her breast. He paused there, hovering, letting her feel the anticipation until it coiled so tightly in her belly she nearly sobbed.
When his lips finally closed over her nipple, Evelyn cried out, her back arching off the bed.
The heat, the ache, the hunger, it all bloomed at once. And she didn't understand any of it. She had never been touched this way. Never imagined she would feel pleasure tangled so tightly with vulnerability.
Nathaniel moved lower, his mouth tasting a path down her trembling body. She couldn't speak. She couldn't think. She could only feel.
When his mouth reached the apex of her thighs, she froze.
"M...my lord, you... you can't..."
"I can," he said. "And I will."
She jolted as his tongue touched her there where no man had ever dared. Where she hadn't even allowed herself to imagine pleasure could live.
Her thighs clamped together, but he pushed them apart with firm hands.
"Let me teach you," he growled, "how your body was meant to be worshipped."