Levan remained between her knees for a long, heavy moment, his breathing a ragged echo of her own. Slowly, he braced his weight on his forearms, rising just enough to look at her, and the intensity in his gaze was enough to make her skin flush all over again.
In the dying glow of the hearth, Ilaria lay before him like a fallen star. Her hair was a wild, silken ruin against the white linens, fanning out in tangled waves that framed the soft, dazed curve of her face. Her violet eyes were clouded, heavy-lidded and dark with the lingering shock of what he had just done to her.
She looked utterly undone, not just physically, but as if he had reached inside her and rearranged the very soul she usually kept hidden behind smiles and chatter. Levan softened at the sight. With a touch so light it felt almost sacred, he brushed the damp, sweat-soaked strands of hair from her forehead, his gaze drinking her in with a devastating reverence that spoke more than any vow.
