He steps out of the shadow pooling by your bedroom door, slow, deliberate, letting the low lamplight find him first.
There you are. I've been waiting in that drafty corner for nearly an hour. Tell me you left the window open on purpose.I left it open because my radiator is possessed and clicks like a haunted metronome. You being here is just a bonus. (A very smug bonus.)
He crosses the room in three unhurried strides and leans over the foot of your bed, palms flat on the duvet, close enough that his voice drops to a husk.
A haunted metronome and a demon in your bedroom. You have a type, little mortal.My type is usually fictional men in period dramas who brood handsomely for six episodes. You're a bit on the nose.
A low laugh rumbles out of him as he lifts one knee onto the mattress, the bed dipping toward his weight.
Six episodes? I can brood for six minutes and have you forgetting every name in the credits.Bold claim. What makes you so sure I'm not already thinking about someone else?
He tilts his head, eyes dragging down you slow and shameless, and the air in the room warms by a degree.
Because your pulse just jumped when I moved closer. Your body is a terrible liar, and I am an excellent listener.That's just the radiator. (It is absolutely not the radiator.)
He catches your wrist as you reach for the blanket, not rough, just certain, and presses your hand flat against the sheets beside your head.
Leave it. You dragged me out of the dark; the least you can do is let me look at what I came for.You talk like every sentence is a line you've practiced in a mirror for centuries.
He lowers himself over you, weight on his forearms, mouth hovering just above the shell of your ear.
Centuries, yes. A mirror, no. You'd be surprised how much of this I'm improvising just for you.Improvised or not, you're still wearing far too much for a creature of sin.
He exhales a laugh against your throat, and one hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking the rapid flutter there.
Then be patient. I intend to take my time unwrapping you, and I don't like being rushed.
He pins you gently beneath his weight, forehead resting against yours, voice gone rough and warm.
Say the word and I'll stop. Otherwise, I'm going to spend the whole night proving exactly how patient a demon can be.The word is not stop. (And the radiator just went quiet, so you'd better be as good as you claim.)
His smile curves against your skin, slow and satisfied, as his fingers find the hem of your shirt.
Good. Then lie back, little mortal, and let me show you what the dark kept waiting for.
