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I need her now, devoured in the place that once redeemed fragments of my soul.

I lower her onto the mats with care that borders on reverence, though my body screams for haste. She reclines like a queen on her chosen battlefield, legs parting invitingly, that wicked intelligence gleaming in her eyes even as desire flushes her cheeks.

“Our Pretty Darling Psycho,” I whisper, the endearment slipping free as I settle between her thighs, my frame caging hers without crushing.

The scent of her arousal hits me then, undiluted—strawberries steeped in molten chocolate, threaded with that sharp metallic tang that speaks of her fractured edges, herunyielding fire. It floods my senses, driving a spike of lust so potent my vision narrows to the apex of her thighs, the damp fabric clinging there like an invitation I can no longer ignore.

“From the first day,” I confess, voice low and reverent as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her long, toned legs with deliberate slowness.

The fabric whispers against her skin, revealing her glistening folds, and I inhale deeply, burying my face against her inner thigh to savor the source.

“Your aroma has been my undoing. Clinical detachment be damned—it clawed through every barrier, made me question the very foundations of my control. Silas and Riot have tasted paradise. Now it’s my turn to worship.”

She trembles beneath the heat of my breath, a mastermind reduced to quivering anticipation, yet her fingers thread into my hair with commanding insistence.

“Less monologue, more action, Pole King. Or do I need to draw you a diagram?”

I chuckle against her skin, the sound dark and laced with promise, nipping at the sensitive flesh of her thigh in gentle rebuke.

“Insatiable. Beautifully, maddeningly so.”

The words are my diagnosis, my confession, my curse. She stares up at me from her nest of mats and darkness, the twin irises—lavender and viridian—blown wide and wet with anticipation.

Her lips, swollen and flushed, twitch as if to retort but instead she bites down, teeth worrying the pink until it nearly matches the hair falling across her face. The scent that pours off her is supernatural, so thick it coats the back of my throat: strawberries macerated in moonshine, rainbow velvet cake devoured by a starving god, spun sugar obliterated by lightning.

I want to mainline it, drown in it, wear it like a second skin until the inside of my lungs are lacquered with her.

I take her in hand, shifting to place both palms under her thighs, spreading her open as if she’s a treat I’ve waited a thousand lifetimes to taste.

Her cunt pulses at the open air, slickness painting her inner thighs, and I waste not one goddamn second before I bend and taste her. My tongue sweeps from the base of her heat to the apex, the very tip of her clit, slow and predatory.

The taste is everything the scent promised: sweet-tart and bright, with an undertow of salt and iron, a chemistry that makes my mouth water and my entire brain light up in synapses of pure, animal greed. Her hips lurch in surprise, a strangled gasp falling from her lips as I lick again, more forceful this time, flattening my tongue and dragging it with the same merciless rigor I apply to academic research. I want every note, every nuance, every molecule of her.

She shudders, then clamps her knees together, trapping my head in a vise of muscle and desperate need.

I let her—no, I urge her—moaning into her sex as I burrow deeper, tongue exploring and probing until I find the spot that makes her breathless, makes the calculations behind her eyes shatter to static.

My hands keep her spread, but she is already falling apart, the tension in her core like a string about to snap. I rake my teeth, gently, across the hood of her clit, then flick it fast with the pointed tip of my tongue until she keens, voice rising in pitch until it’s almost an animal’s song.

The taste of her grows sharper, more urgent, a flood that soaks my chin and the fabric beneath us.

Each pulse of her is a reward, a data point, a confirmation of obsession returned in kind. I let my right hand creep up, thumb stroking the place where my tongue cannot reach, and slip twofingers inside her—slow, then fast, then curling upward to find that sacred patch of nerves.

Her sounds are like a musical sympathy of whimpering and pleas.

She thrashes, nails raking my scalp, legs twitching so hard I nearly lose my grip. I double down, mouth latched to her clit, fingers stroking inside her with the clinical, devastating precision of a man who has spent decades learning how to break down defenses.

“Lucien—fuck—there?—”

She comes undone with a cry that echoes off the mirrors, her release flooding my tongue in hot, pulsing waves.

She squirts, the warm rush coating my chin, my lips, and I lap at it greedily, unwilling to waste a single drop of this gift. Her body convulses in aftershocks, scent blooming richer, sweeter, a siren's call that has my cock straining painfully against my trousers.

I rise over her, shedding the last of my base layer with impatient tugs, my thick length springing free—hard, flushed, leaking with evidence of my own unraveling need.

“Patience has been an exquisite torment,” I admit, positioning myself at her entrance, the blunt head teasing her slick folds. “Cynical as I am, I refused to claim you until I knew I could commit without fracture. No half-measures.”

Her eyes, wild with that intoxicating blend of genius and lunacy, lock onto mine.