The storm’s howling outside, rattling the windows of my Kensington mansion like a beast demanding entry. I’m holed up in my study, the weight of an unfinished novel pressing on me, when she arrives—Isadora, the photographer I reluctantly agreed to let document my work. I’m not one for company; solitude’s been my muse since the world decided I was a genius. But there’s something about her—bold, unapologetic, a spark in her hazel eyes that feels like a challenge. She’s Robert Greene’s Star, radiant and untouchable, yet here she is, dripping wet in my foyer, her leather jacket clinging to her like a dare.
I offer her a towel, my voice gruffer than I mean it to be. “You shouldn’t be out in this.” She laughs, low and throaty, shaking out her dark curls. “I’ve survived worse,” she says, and I believe her. There’s a fire in her, the kind that could burn through my walls. I’m the Professor, all logic and restraint, but her presence is a crack in my armor, and I’m not sure I want to patch it.
We end up in the library, the storm a distant roar behind oak panels and shelves of leather-bound books. She’s prowling the room, her camera forgotten, her fingers trailing over spines as if they’re lovers. “You hide in here, don’t you?” she asks, not accusing, just seeing. I don’t answer, but my silence is a confession. She steps closer, her scent—rain and something feral—hitting me like a shot of whiskey. “What are you afraid of, Elias?” she murmurs, and I hate how my name sounds like a secret on her lips.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly we’re inches apart, the air between us electric. “Show me,” I say, my voice raw, and it’s not a request. Her eyes darken, and she’s kissing me—fierce, unyielding, like she’s claiming something I didn’t know I’d surrendered. My hands find her hips, pulling her against me, and I’m drowning in the heat of her, the way her body fits like it was carved for mine. She’s not soft or yielding; she’s a storm in her own right, and I’m caught in it.
We stumble to the chaise by the fire, her jacket hitting the floor, my shirt following. Her skin’s a canvas—freckles dusting her shoulders, a scar curving under her ribs—and I want to map every inch. My fingers trace her collarbone, slow and deliberate, watching her shiver. She’s not passive; her nails rake my back, urging me closer, and when she arches against me, a moan slips from her throat, raw and unguarded. I’m undone by it, by her—by the way she looks at me, like I’m more than the words I’ve written.
I peel away her jeans, my hands shaking—not from nerves, but from the sheer weight of wanting her. She’s bare now, firelight painting her in gold, and I pause, just to take her in. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, her voice a command, and I don’t. My mouth follows my hands, tasting the salt of her skin, the curve of her thigh, the heat of her core. She’s trembling, gasping my name, and it’s a sound I want to hear forever. Her fingers tangle in my hair, guiding me, and I’m lost in her rhythm, in the way she unravels under me.
When I finally slide into her, it’s slow, deliberate, every inch a conversation. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me deeper, and we’re moving together, a dance of need and surrender. She’s not just taking; she’s giving—her eyes locked on mine, vulnerable in a way that hits harder than her touch. The world narrows to this—to her breath hitching, her hips meeting mine, the fire in my veins building to a roar. When she comes, it’s with a cry that echoes in my bones, and I’m right behind her, a growl tearing from my chest as I lose myself in her.
We collapse, tangled and breathless, the storm outside a faint echo of the one we’ve just weathered. She’s still here, her head on my chest, and I’m tracing patterns on her skin, wondering how I ever thought I could keep her out. There’s no talk of tomorrow, but her hand in mine feels like a promise—one I’m not sure I’m ready to break.