He broke the kiss only long enough to murmur:
“Open the door.”
Her hand shook as she turned the key.
The click was impossibly loud.
Elias inhaled—once—as though steadying himself.
Then he stepped inside with her and closed the door behind them.
The room was dark except for the sliver of lamplight from the corridor.
In that dimness, she looked almost unreal—every soft line and curve touched with gold.
He reached for her again—slower this time, almost reverent.
His hands traced the line of her arms, the curve of her waist, the delicate rise of her breasts beneath the thin linen.
She trembled under his touch in a way that made his knees weak.
“Tell me if this is too much,” he whispered.
“It isn’t.”
He kissed her again, but this time his lips trailed lower—along her jaw, the line of her throat, the hollow beneath her ear.
Her breath caught, her fingers sliding into his hair, holding him to her almost without meaning to.
“Celine,” he murmured against her skin. “Is this a dream?”
She made a soft sound—half laugh, half plea—and he felt it vibrate through her.
“If it is,” she whispered, “I do not wish to wake.”
He sank to his knees before her.
Her breath stilled.
“Elias…”
He looked up at her, hands resting lightly on her hips.
“You need only say no.”
She didn’t.
She touched his face—a tender, trembling gesture that undid the last of his restraint.
He leaned forward.
And kissed her through the thin linen.
Just a brush, a reverent tasting, but enough to make her gasp and grip his shoulders for balance.
He drew her shift up—slow, careful—exposing warm, silken skin to the cool air and to his mouth.
He kissed the inside of her thigh, feather-light.
