I could feel the heat of him through the thin, damp fabric between us, the rise and fall of his chest brushing mine every time he inhaled. My body reacted immediately, leaning into the warmth before my brain could catch up.
Arthur noticed. His jaw tightened slightly, like he was choosing very carefully what to do next. Then he adjusted me and swept a stack of papers off the surface with one careless arm and set me down, standing between my knees, hands braced on either side of me like I was the only thing in the room worth keeping.
We were still drenched, still breathing too hard.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then my throat, then back to my eyes, dark and intent and almost unbearably tender all at once. His hands slid to my waist, thumbs pressing into the damp fabric there, grounding and possessive in a way that made my pulse spike.
I tugged him closer by the frontof his shirt.
“Arthur,” I moaned.
He kissed me like he’d been waiting to do it properly all along, like he was memorizing me with his mouth. My fingers traced the strong lines of his shoulders, the curve of his back, everywhere I could reach. Every touch felt charged, like something ancient and bright was humming under my skin.
Arthur groaned softly against my mouth, and the sound had heat coiling low in my belly.
My legs tightened around his hips, drawing him closer until there was almost no space left between us at all.
We were filthy and covered in the residue of terror and triumph and magic and each other.
“I’d really like to clean up,” I said breathlessly, not entirely sure I meant the words in the practical sense. But I definitely didn’t want to dothiscovered in muck.
His lips curved against mine.
“So would I,” he murmured.
He picked me up again and carried me through a carved archway into a bathroom that looked like a dragon had decided to be very into marble and waterfalls. Stone, tall ceilings, gleaming metal—everything luxurious and strange in the best way.
He gently set me down on my feet, suddenly careful, like he didn’t want to startle me out of whatever fragile, glowing thing we were standing inside.
“I’ll give you privacy,” he said, already turning away.
“Arthur.”
He stopped.
“Will you stay with me?” The words came out softer than I meant them to, almost shy, which felt ridiculous given everything we had just survived. Still, I didn’t take them back.
I reached for the hem of my soaked shirt and slowly pulled it over my head. The fabric clung to my skin before giving way, then I let it drop to the floor between us. I unhooked my bra and let it fall next.
I didn’t look away from him, not even when the vulnerable part of my brain tried to whisper that I should.
His attention was completely on me now. His eyes followed every movement, filled with desire and intent. Like he was really seeing me. The way my skin was flushed from heat and adrenaline. The way my hair clung to my shoulders. The way I was standing there, still damp and shaking a little, and not hiding.
Like I wasn’t just taking off clothing, but letting himseeme.
His eyes moved slowly, taking in every inch of me. It felt like being read, being understood without having to explain myself.
I slid my hands to the next layer of wet fabric and eased it down, letting it fall away. The room was quiet except for our breathing, and suddenly every sound felt loud. My heart. The water still dripping from us. The faint buzz of the world outside this moment.
He swallowed, his throat moving, his gaze moving back up to my face like he wanted to make sure I knew he was still with me. Stillchoosing me.
“You are perfect,” he said.
Something in my chest gave way.
No one had ever said that to me before
I didn’t feel like Fartie Artie the screw-up or the weird girl who never quite fit anymore. With him, I felt wanted. Chosen. Perfect exactly as I was.
