Ivan leaned in.
His lips brushed the bare slope of her back—soft, reverent. Each kiss he left behind felt like an apology. A plea. A memory he didn't want to lose.
Lydia shivered beneath his mouth, her breath unsteady. She didn't stop him. Her fingers clutched at the edge of the piano bench, holding on to the moment like it might slip away if she moved too fast.
When he rose again, his hands cupped her face gently, as if she were something fragile. Something he didn't deserve to touch. But she leaned into his palms, her eyes glassy.
"I need you," he whispered hoarsely.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Only a quiet nod.
He lifted her in his arms—careful, almost desperate—and carried her to the velvet chaise in the corner of the lounge. The room was still bathed in soft afternoon light, and everything around them felt distant. Unimportant.
He laid her down, his body following hers.
