The world hung there, waiting for the collapse.
They were close enough to share breath—hers uneven, his steady, the two currents tangling in the small space between them. Candlelight trembled against their faces, painting gold across shadow. His gaze held her still; every blink felt like it might break something sacred.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. The silence between them was alive, pulsing, as if the air itself waited to be claimed.
Then her hand moved.
Fingers found the cord at his waist and drew it loose. The knot yielded with a soft sigh, the sound small, yet it seemed to echo between them.
The robe slackened. Still, she didn't look away.
Her hands trembled once—only once—before they steadied against him. Beneath her palms, she felt the quiet, coiled strength of him: muscle shifting under velvet skin, a restrained rhythm like thunder held behind stone.
Her fingers traced upward, learning the shape of him through touch alone—the smooth rise of his abdomen, the tense pull of breath beneath it, the faint scars that broke the perfection of his skin like private constellations.
Each discovery felt seen rather than felt, as if her hands were eyes and his body spoke in a language older than words.
When she reached his chest, her breath caught. The warmth of him radiated outward, wrapping around her like gravity. He didn't move, but his pulse beat hard beneath her palm, a silent answering tremor.
Her hands rose higher, slow as tide, following the line of his collarbone. When her fingers spread over his shoulders, she felt the robe shift, its silk sliding under her touch. It slipped soundlessly from him, pooling at his feet in black shadow.
Their eyes never broke. The air between them shivered—one held breath too long—and in that stillness, the balance shifted.
Her amber eyes were wide, pupils deep and unflinching. For a moment he saw nothing else—only the faint tremor of her breath, the rise and fall that seemed to call him closer.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then to the small pulse at her throat, down the pale line of her neck to the hollow between her collarbones. The skin there shimmered faintly, fine as silk.
He raised his hand and placed two fingers—middle and ring—at that hollow. Her skin was soft beneath his touch, almost impossibly so, the heat of it meeting his fingertips like water gone still.
He drew them downward, tracing the narrow path of her sternum. Her skin shifted under him, alive with tension, the pulse of her heart beating fast enough that he could feel its echo in his own chest.
The robe parted slightly where it crossed, and he followed the line, slow as breath, until the silk gave way to skin. Beneath his touch she felt like light made tangible—warm, responsive, fragile and unyielding all at once.
Her stomach quivered when he passed over it. A shiver ran through her that he felt as much as saw, and the corner of his mouth curved before he could stop it.
When he reached the knot at her waist, he hesitated—not from doubt, but to let the moment breathe. Then he slipped his fingers beneath the cord and pulled.
The silk loosened. The robe fell open.
Air touched what his hands had not yet claimed, and the sound she made—a breath caught halfway to a sigh—was almost enough to undo him.
The pause that followed was one of recognition—an understanding of what could no longer be undone.
Her hands, still resting on his shoulders, slid upward, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. The motion drew him down to her, their breaths mingling, the space between them collapsing.
She rose onto her toes as his hands found her waist.
He pulled her against him—hard, certain.
Bodies met: chest to chest, belly to belly, hip to hip, thighs to thighs. The contact was a spark and a storm all at once, a shock of heat that consumed the fragile distance between thought and instinct.
Her fingers sank into his hair, anchoring herself against the surge. His grip tightened, a wordless claim that she answered in kind, her softness yielding, molding to the rhythm of his touch.
The kiss found them somewhere between breath and surrender—inevitable as gravity.
Heat meeting heat, hunger tempered by reverence. What began as a slow pull became something wilder, a surrender neither had chosen but both had longed for. Her breath broke against his mouth; his answered, rough and low, catching on the edge of restraint.
He caught her up without breaking the kiss; her gasp was swallowed by his mouth. The air shifted around them, the world unbalanced. When his knees touched the edge of the bed, he paused—only for a heartbeat—forehead to forehead, breath to breath.
Her eyes opened, wide and burning.
He brushed his thumb along her jaw, tracing the faint tremor there, the whisper of her pulse. His voice came low, almost a breath:
"Tell me if—"
She silenced him with a nod, the smallest motion, and then her mouth found his again, answering what words could not.
He sank down with her, half above, half beside—his weight careful, his hands framing her face as though she were something both fragile and infinite. The kiss gentled, softened, turned to something that burned quieter but deeper.
When he drew back, their eyes met once more—uncertain, certain, everything at once.
The world contracted to breath and pulse. His hand slid down her stomach, tracing the slow rise of her ribs, the hollow where breath gathered, the warmth that met his palm and drew him deeper into the pull of her.
Her fingers trembled where they clung to him, not from fear, but from the weight of what was about to begin. He felt it in her—the tremor of anticipation, the leap of her heart, the way her breath hitched when he moved closer.
"Eva," he murmured, as though saying her name could steady them both.
She opened her eyes. For a heartbeat, everything between them stilled. Then she nodded—barely, a single breath of permission—and the world broke open.
The motion was slow, almost reverent. Her breath caught; his did too. For an instant, every muscle in him went still, as if he feared the sound of his own pulse might shatter her. But she exhaled—a small, trembling sound—and the tension between them began to melt.
They moved together in careful rhythm, learning the shape of one another. The air seemed to hum with it, the way flame hums when it leans into the wick. Each touch, each movement, carried both restraint and release—his control unraveling thread by thread, her trust blooming with each shared breath.
He kissed her again—slow, tender, tasting the faint trace of the confection still lingering on her tongue. The sweetness drew a sound from his throat—soft, dark, undone.
When her fingers clutched at his back, he caught her wrist, pressing her hand flat against his chest so she could feel it—the weight, the heartbeat, the proof that he, too, was breaking.
The rhythm found them and remade them. The silence filled with the sound of breathing, the quiet slide of bellies, the soft tremor of something vast and wordless opening between them.
Time fractured. There was no before or after, only the point of convergence where two lines finally met and vanished into one.
When it came—sharp, bright, unstoppable—it was like the collapse of a star, all light drawn inward until nothing remained but heat and gravity and the echo of their names.
Their breaths still tangled in the air, uneven, trembling. The world had narrowed to warmth and heartbeat. He could still taste her on his tongue — honey and salt, mortal and divine.
He brushed a hand along her throat, fingertips tracing the faint shimmer where her pulse raced beneath the skin. The sound of it filled him, steady and bright.
"May I?"
The words came low, roughened by reverence. Her eyes found his — wide, unfocused, trusting — and she gave the permission.
His hand curved around her wrist, guiding her gently. He lowered his mouth to the pulse and bit, shallowly.
The reaction was instant. Her body arched, but not from pain; the venom's numbing bloom spread swiftly, dissolving the sharpness into heat. Her breath caught in a soft gasp as his tongue brushed the wound, sealing it.
He moved to the other side, mirrored the touch. Another breathless shiver. Another low sound from her throat, half sigh, half surrender.
Then he paused, hovering above the hollow of her throat — the place where her heartbeat struck hardest, trembling against his lips.
"Here," he murmured, not as a question but as a promise.
She tilted her head back, exposing the fragile column of her neck.
And he bit. Deeply.
The world split open.
Her taste surged through him like light breaking glass — sweet, electric, infinite. It wasn't just blood; it was essence, breath, fire. Her life met his tongue and he drank not to take, but to become.
The venom threaded through her veins, a rush of warmth that flared and spiraled. The sensation struck her like memory — the same wave cresting again, consuming, radiant — until her body trembled with release, the sound of her pulse echoing inside him.
For him, it was something beyond hunger. It was communion — the act of drinking from a soul that answered his own. Every heartbeat felt like a tether winding tighter, thought to thought, breath to breath, until he no longer knew where he ended and she begun.
Her hands clutched weakly at his back, grounding him as the pull threatened to drag him past reason.
When he finally tore himself away, the movement was ragged, unwilling. His breath came in sharp bursts, her taste still vivid on his tongue. The wound at her throat remained open, though the blood was already sealing.
He pressed his forehead against hers. Her lashes fluttered once, heavy, her breathing shallow and spent. He held her as though afraid she might slip from him, though neither of them could have moved even if they'd wanted to.
The world was quiet again.
She drifted in that silence, her body pliant, her pulse steady against his lips. He lingered in it — inebriated, undone — the echo of her essence burning through his veins like starlight refusing to fade.