The moment the door shut, the world shrank to two people and one impossible gravity.
Soren stood with his back against the door, chest rising and falling in slow, fractured breaths. Lantern light edged his shoulders in gold; the gloves looked darker here, dangerous in a way that made her pulse trip.
He didn't move toward her. Not yet.
He looked like a man giving himself one final second to remember who he was.
It didn't work.
"Elena," he said, voice low and ragged, "come here."
She should have hesitated. She didn't. She crossed the room slowly—each step a question, each breath a dare.
When she reached him, Soren lifted his hand and braced it on the door beside her head, caging her in a way that stole the rest of her air.
His other hand—still gloved—hovered at her jaw, not touching, but close enough that the heat of it skated along her skin.
His eyes—dark, hungry, undone—locked on hers.
"Tell me," he murmured. "What you meant."
Her lips parted. "Soren…"
"No." His voice deepened, command threading through it. "Say it."
Her pulse skittered violently.
She swallowed hard, heat crawling up her neck.
"I…" Her breath trembled. "I can't stop thinking about your hands."
His jaw flexed.
"More," he said quietly.
She hesitated—only for a heartbeat—before the truth slipped out, low and shaking:
"How they'd feel," she whispered, "on my skin."
Soren went absolutely still.
Her voice softened further, almost a confession, almost a plea:
"The leather… the way it would slide—warm, firm…" She shivered. "I imagine what it would do to me."
Something fractured in his expression—restraint snapping like a bowstring.
He stepped closer, breath unsteady. She didn't stop.
"I want to know how it feels," she breathed. "Your gloves. On me."
His eyes darkened to midnight.
Soren's gloved hand moved from her jaw, tracing a slow, deliberate path down her neck, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
Not rough. Not hurried. Purposeful.
Elena gasped softly when his fingers traced her collarbone—slow, deliberate—then dipped lower, following the curve of her body with an unbearable patience that set every nerve alight.
Cold leather against heated skin. A contrast so sharp it stole her breath.
A shiver ran through her before she could stop it.
Soren's other hand stayed planted beside her head, gloved palm pressed to the door, his body caging hers without touching—except everywhere she felt him.
The space between them crackled.
Possessive. Unyielding. A storm held barely in check.
Her pulse pounded so loudly she was sure he could feel it.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Like this?" he murmured, his voice a low growl as his gloved hand slid down her side, tracing the dip of her waist.
Elena nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," she whispered, her body arching into his touch.
Soren's hand moved lower, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her skirt and panties.
Each touch ignited a trail of warmth through her body as his leather-clad fingers moved in measured, patient circles against her most sensitive flesh. She gripped his shoulders, steadying herself against the sensations. Everything registered with vivid clarity—the slick coolness against her skin, the perfect weight of his touch, the intensity of his gaze that made the rest of the world disappear.
"Soren—" Her voice broke, soft and trembling. "Please don't stop."
His breath brushed her ear, hot and uneven.
"I wasn't planning to."
He increased the pressure, his fingers moving with precision, each stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through her. She could feel the leather against her, the sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced.
Rough. Smooth. All at once.
"Don't stop," she begged.
"Never," he rasped.
His eyes never leaving hers as he continued to stroke her, his gloved hand moving with a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart.
And when he pushed her past the edge—when her breath shattered against his shoulder—Soren caught her, held her through it, anchoring her with firm hands and a low murmur of her name like a vow.
As her breathing slowly returned to normal, he pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire.
He didn't tell her to do anything. He simply lifted his hand—slow, deliberate—and brought his fingers to his own mouth.
Elena's breath caught.
Soren's gaze never left her as he tasted them, eyes darkening with unmistakable intent. His lips closed around his fingers with infuriating calm, as if he were assessing something precious. As if he were claiming it.
A low sound left his chest—satisfied. Dangerous.
"Yes," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, softer. "Just as I thought, delicious."
"Yes," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, softer. "Just as I thought."
Her knees weakened.
He lowered his hand and stepped into her space, close enough that she felt the heat of him everywhere. One finger tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
She did.
"Remember this," he continued, voice steady, commanding. "Every time you think you don't affect me."