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I lower my head, dragging my lips down the long, exposed column of her neck and press a hard kiss to the sensitive dip behind her ear before claiming her mouth again.

Calm yourself, Thorne.

Take your time.

She lets out one of those desperate, whimpering noises—the exact sound that ruined me on the practice room bench, and that's when my hands abandon all restraint.

One hand grips her waist, holding her pinned against the piano, while the other slides down, finding the lethal slit in her black gown.

“The things you do to me,” I mutter against her throat, my fingers trailing up the warm, bare skin of her thigh. “The things I want to do to you right now.”

“Show me,” she says.

Her voice isn’t timid. It’s steady, dark, and demanding. It’s a quiet command that is easily the most devastating thing she has ever said to me.

Fuck sake, Bow-Peep. I’ll bloody show you if you want me to.

“This fucking slit…” I growl against her mouth, my hand gliding higher, slowly, deliberately, and with the unhurried focus of a man who has been secretly starving for this exact moment since the day he met her.

Her breath leaves her in a sharp, helpless gasp, her head falling against my shoulder as my fingers trace the curve of her hip. I find the delicate scrap of lace beneath her dress and push it aside.

When my fingertips make direct contact with her wet, burning heat, a full-body shudder passes through her.

“Julian…” my name tears from her throat.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, my thumb circling her core before I press two fingers slowly inside her.

She grips my shoulders hard as her hips automatically arch up to meet my hand. She is so tight, and so impossibly wet, wrapping around my fingers like she was made specifically for this.

“I spent an entire year trying to hate you, Vance,” I rasp, dragging my mouth along her jawline as I set a slow, steady rhythm inside her. “You made it completely fucking impossible.”

“I know,” she pants, her fingers digging through my open shirt, her nails into the muscles of my chest. “Me too.”

She is completely undone.

No armour. No 'Golden Girl' posture. Just Ellise. Completely raw and mine.

She slides her free hand down between us, her fingers cupping the heavy, agonising ache strained against the front of my trousers. She squeezes softly, stroking me through the fabric, and the sheer friction almost brings me to my knees right there on the rug.

My head drops to her shoulder, my forehead resting against her skin as I force a ragged breath through my teeth.

“Ellise… fuck,” I groan into her collarbone.

I pull my hand from beneath her dress long enough to grip her thighs, lifting her onto the flat wooden surface of the piano lid.

“Do you remember what you told me in the practice room?” I rasp against her ear, my fingers sliding right back inside her, deeper this time. “About your limits?”

She lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob, her head rolling back against the mahogany lid.

“Not anymore,” she admits, her voice completely wrecked. “Not tonight. Not with you.”

“Good.”

I curl my fingers inside her, increasing the speed, my thumb working her core in relentless, deliberate circles. I watch her face as she loses control—not all at once, but in rolling, helpless waves. Her chest heaves, her back arches, and her breath catches in her throat.

“Come for me, Bow-Peep,” I growl against her mouth, deepening the thrust of my fingers. “You’re perfect when you do.”

She breaks.