(Warning! might be, no it is sensual... It is my first time writing something like this, but my dreams gave me the ideas...)
Backstory:
She was known in Calvaren only as The Widow Aldane—not because she had ever been married, but because every man who lay with her seemed to vanish. Some said she poisoned them, leaving their bones to rot beneath her cherry orchard. Others whispered of curses, demons, or an ancient vow inked into her skin in languages the gods had forgotten.
But the truth was simpler. She had once been Lady Thaleia Virellyn, the last daughter of a ruined noble house, a child raised on silk and secrets, made to dance for ambassadors at fourteen and bleed for spies at sixteen.
When her father was accused of treason, her family was purged. Thaleia escaped, fire-eyed and blood-slick, through the tunnels her mother once used to smuggle dreams and lovers beneath the citadel walls.
For ten years, she rebuilt herself. Not in court, but in quiet taverns, playing dice with pirates and skinning gold from mercenaries with a look and a laugh. Her body was her blade, and her tongue was poison-dipped. She studied poisons, seduced alchemists, and learned how to make a man see heaven in her kiss and damnation in the very next breath.
When she returned to Calvaren under the false name Aldane, her smile was a spell, and her touch—an unspoken contract. She bought the manor on the cliffs, rebuilt its wine cellars, and turned it into a den of whispers and want. A place where secrets were traded like silk, and love was sold by the hour—if you could afford the price. She never laid with anyone herself. Not until him.
***
In the Lantern Room
The lanterns were red. Always red in the upper chamber, where the walls breathed heat and perfume clung like sweat behind the knees. The storm outside slapped the windows with wanton palms, wind moaning like some jealous lover denied. But inside, everything was velvet and hush.
He stood at the edge of the room, gloved fingers pulling at the buttons of his coat with a hesitance that amused her.
"Cold?" Thaleia asked, her voice like mulled wine—spiced, warm, with a threat of intoxication.
"I thought—" he began, but she silenced him with a look.
"No thoughts now," she said. "Only hunger."
She stepped from the shadows barefoot, her gown a black thing that clung to her hips like a second skin and spilled off her shoulder like it was bored of modesty. Her legs whispered secrets with every step, and her amber eyes caught the flicker of lanternlight as if they had been cut from garnets and sin.
He tried to speak again, but her fingers found his lips. "Shh," she whispered, dragging them down his jaw, slowly savoring his shape. "You paid for this moment, but I decide how it tastes."
And gods, did she taste.
She leaned in, tongue tracing the line beneath his ear, breath hot. Her hands were fire and silk, slipping beneath his shirt, dragging nails over skin, a slow scrape that made his breath catch. She kissed like she was sealing a deal—firm, deep, a promise made with lips and sealed with teeth.
Clothes fell—no, peeled, undone, not in haste but in reverence. Every button is a tiny confession. Every sigh is a surrender. She straddled him on the chaise, her thighs gripping his hips with calculated command. His hands reached for her waist but were caught, wrist to wrist, and pinned above his head.
"Not yet," she breathed against his mouth, her voice all blade and lullaby. "You don't get to touch the storm until it's begging for thunder."
And she moved. Gods, did she move.
Her hips rolled in slow, wicked circles, teasing him through the final barrier of fabric until he was breathless, sweat-beaded, desperate. She rode the edge of sensation like a queen upon her throne, watching him unravel, stitch by stitch. She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, her lips brushing his with each cruel, glorious grind.
"You think you've known pleasure?" she whispered, voice velvet wrapped around a dagger. "You've only known the echo."
Then she slid against him, heat meeting heat, the friction a growl between them. His back arched. She smiled.
Outside, thunder cracked.
Inside, the storm had already broken.
He was panting now, chest rising with that delicious edge of helplessness she adored. The kind that came when a man realized he was no longer leading the moment—he was being led, blindfolded, naked, nerves strung like harp strings beneath her hands.
And Thaleia? She played.
Her mouth trailed down his throat, slow and claiming, lips parted just enough to leave damp marks—territory lines. Her nails, painted the color of dried blood, skated down his torso in teasing arcs, stopping just above the waistband where tension coiled hot and aching. She didn't touch him. Not yet. No, she hovered, breathed there, let the warmth of her breath ghost over hard flesh until he growled something wordless and low.
She laughed. Gods, it was velvet sin—the kind that made your knees buckle and your morals pack their bags.
"You're already shaking," she whispered, rolling her hips just enough to make his breath stutter. "And I haven't even started breaking you."
Her fingers slid down then, slow as molten candlewax, dragging fabric with them, revealing inch by maddening inch. When he was finally bare beneath her, she sat back, thighs framing him, looking down like a goddess admiring an offering. Her eyes devoured. Her mouth curved.
"You're beautiful," she said, not kindly. Hungrily. "And you're mine, tonight."
Then she shifted and sank.
It wasn't rushed. It was a ritual. The kind that started wars and ended dynasties. He surged upward instinctively, but she locked her hips, pinned him again with that smirk like a lit match hovering over dry parchment.
"Slow," she hissed. "You'll feel everything I do to you. Every. Single. Drag."
Her muscles clenched, rippled around him like silk and fire, coaxing the kind of groan that sounded almost pained. She began to move. Not just up and down, no, that was for girls who didn't know how to wield power with their bodies. She twisted, rocked, rolled, and dragged herself over him with maddening control.
He tried to speak. A moan, a plea, a warning. She cut it off with a kiss—feral, consuming, biting his lower lip just hard enough to draw blood. She tasted it, moaned low, land et her tongue swirl over the wound like it was dessert.
Thrust. Grind. Squeeze. Moan.
Outside, the storm beat its fists against the manor.
Inside, the rhythm of hips on hips became a second thunder. Louder. Deeper.
She rode him like a curse being fulfilled—one leg up, chest arched, head thrown back as she took her pleasure ruthlessly. Her nails dragged across his chest in red tracks. Her name—her real name—was whispered from his lips without him knowing it.
"Thaleia..."
She froze.
That was the cost, wasn't it? To feel, to want, even for a moment, was to risk being known.
She looked down at him, hair wild, eyes molten, lips bruised and wet. Her fingers wrapped around his throat, gentle at first… then tightening. He choked on pleasure and breath, eyes fluttering half-closed.
"Say it again," she demanded.
He did.
"Thaleia."
And the way she slammed down on him made the bed crack.
She was no longer riding him. She was claiming him—his voice, his soul, his ruin. Faster now, deeper, harder, her nails drawing blood with each surge. His hands gripped the sheets like lifelines. Her moans grew feral, breathless, rising with each thrust until she was screaming, body shuddering as climax hit like lightning through her spine.
He came moments later, gasping, writhing beneath her like a man pulled from the sea, drowning and grateful.
She collapsed on top of him, slick and shaking, mouth pressed to his shoulder.
They lay there, trembling together, hearts hammering like twin war drums.
And somewhere, beneath them, the wine in the cellar stopped sloshing.
Even storms pause… for reverence.