Evelyne turned without a word, gliding up the staircase. Her hips swayed with wicked intent, and Lucien followed like a man bewitched. No one stopped them. No one dared.
She led him down a corridor of crimson velvet and candlelight, past locked doors that whispered of unspeakable pleasures. At the end stood a black door carved with roses and open mouths.
She pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick—perfume, candle wax, magic. A chaise longue sat beneath a stained-glass window depicting lovers locked in embrace. The room was hungry. Lucien could feel it.
Evelyne turned to face him.
"Strip," she said softly.
Lucien's grin curled. He obeyed. Slowly. Each button undone like a promise. His coat slid from his shoulders, revealing lean muscle and inked sigils across his chest—symbols of his bloodline's cursed arousal magic. His cock was already hard, pressed against the silk of his breeches.
She stepped close, fingers trailing over his chest, stopping just above a glowing mark near his collarbone. Her voice was a murmur, almost reverent.
"This is the sigil of the Binding Flame… You've been touched by primal magic."
"It flares with climax," Lucien said, voice husky. "And it burns brighter with the right partner."
She pushed him onto the chaise, straddling him in a single graceful motion. Her gown spilled around them like liquid sin.
"No spells. No illusions," she whispered against his mouth. "Only flesh. Only truth."
Their kiss was molten—tongues, teeth, breathless moans. Her hand slid down, freeing him with practiced ease. Her fingers stroked his cock, slow and firm, as she watched him unravel beneath her touch.
He groaned, head thrown back. "You're a fucking goddess."
"I'm your reckoning," she purred, guiding him inside her.
Her heat swallowed him, tight and slick and overwhelming. They moved together, hips rocking in rhythm, her nails raking down his chest, his hands gripping her waist as if afraid she'd disappear.
Each thrust pulled more magic from his core. The sigils flared, lighting the room in golden-red pulses.
Her pace quickened, wild and desperate. Lucien growled, pulling her hair, biting her shoulder.
"Say my name," he gasped.
"Lucien," she moaned, "fuck me harder."
And he did—thrusting up into her, their bodies crashing together in frantic rhythm, the room humming with the charge of ancient lust.
She came with a cry that echoed through the chamber, and he followed, spilling inside her as their magic exploded into a blinding, erotic storm.
When it was over, Evelyne collapsed atop him, chest heaving. The sigils on his skin glowed softly now—sated, but hungry still.
She kissed his throat and whispered, "You're mine now, Lucien D'Aramitz. And this is only the beginning."