The distant echo of footsteps—measured, deliberate, Harold's unmistakable stride ascending the grand staircase—cut through the haze of their shared breath like a warning bell.
The spell fractured in an instant, the languid worship snapping into sharp, electric awareness as danger crept closer.
Phei's lips had just begun their slow, inevitable descent, tracing a heated path down the elegant line of her throat, over the delicate ridge of her collarbone, toward the soft, trembling plane of her sternum.
His hands still framed her ribs with reverent care, thumbs brushing the underside of her dress in silent promise.
Delilah's pulse fluttered wildly beneath his mouth, her body arching into every gentle kiss, every warm exhale against her skin. A tiny, desperate "mmh…" slipped from her lips as his mouth lingered, her hips shifting restlessly against him.
But the footsteps grew closer.
