"Ion…" Her voice trembled, his name slipping from her lips like a sinful prayer, glistening with the same dampness that clung to her skin.
Hearing her say his name at the height of euphoria, Orion’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the armrest of his chair. His gaze molten as it traced the flush creeping up Freya’s throat. "What did you say, Freya?" The words were a low growl, velvet-wrapped steel, each syllable deliberate—taunting.
She bit her lip, her pencil smudging the sketchpad as her fingers faltered. But her other hand—ah, that one was relentless. Hidden beneath the folds of her dress, it moved with wicked precision, her hips betraying the smallest, most tantalizing shifts against the cushion.
Orion knew. Of course he knew.
The fabric whispered with her movements, a cruel
