The sound of fabric hitting the stone fills the cellar. Braizen slowly raises his tunic above his head. As he stretches, his muscles ripple in the dim light, and I follow their deep lines to where they disappear into his braies. Heat surges through my lower body. How badly I wish I could be the one to take off his clothes. How I wish I could trace those hard lines with the tip of my tongue.

Playfully, he places two thumbs under the remaining cloth and smirks. “Your turn,” he says.

I take another deep breath; my lacey white chemise is the last thing that hides me from him. It’s only now, as we stand half-naked in this dingy place, that I realize what I am about to do. My hand rests on one of the straps and stays there. I fear I might not have drunk nearly enough to summon the courage to skim the strap down my arm and fully reveal myself to him. My hand lays there, awaiting instruction. I swallow and close my eyes.

“Take it off.”

My lids snap open.

He pulls down his linen braies, nothing but authority in his gaze. My mouth drops open. The sight of him, hard and ready for me, is almost too much to take in.

That confirms one of the rumors I’ve heard over the years.

“Idalia,” he interrupts my gawking and tilts his head downwards. “That hand belongs to me now. Do as I say.”

My back arches again, and before I’m even aware of it, my hand pulls down the strap. Then the second strap. The silk glissades down my body and pools at my feet.

He draws in a deep, long breath. I wait for a compliment—or anything resembling one—to soothe my nerves as he studies every curve of my body. He looks at me in the same way he once gazed at the rare sparrow in the aviary. The prize that carefully selected him. Something rare.

His gaze returns to my face, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to say anything, anything at all.

“Let down your hair.”

As if I have no control over my own body, my hands snatch at the pins that hold up my hair, and it falls effortlessly to my shoulders and down my back. I shake out the curls as best I can until they frame my face.

“Good,” he whispers. “Now, I want you to slide your palm down your chest.”

My breaths are shallow as I trace my fingers gently along my collarbone and then lower them into the crevice between my breasts.

“Stop,” he orders.

I freeze, eyes locked below his waist. My heart races as his hand glides down and clasps his taut member. One slow stroke and I see his entire form tremble.

“I want to feel your breasts in my hand,” he instructs.