He kissed her like he was branding her soul—tongue sweeping in, claiming every inch of her mouth, teeth sinking into her plush lower lip with a sharp bite that wrung a desperate gasp from her throat.

His fist in her hair anchored her exactly where he wanted, tilting her head back to take more, deeper.

His other hand clamped her hip, yanking her flush against him until the rigid, throbbing length of his cock ground hard against her belly through the thin barriers of fabric.

"Ahh... Phei~" Sierra moaned—a low, broken sound that vibrated straight to his balls—her manicured fingers twisting in his shirt like she'd fall apart if she let go.

He felt the exact moment she surrendered: the way her spine softened, the way her hips rolled instinctively into his, the sudden rush of wet heat he could feel blooming between her thighs as her body opened for him without a single touch.

When he finally tore his mouth away, they were both ragged, breathless.

Her lips were swollen, crimson and glistening. Her eyes glazed, pupils blown wide with lust. Silken strands of hair clung to her flushed cheeks where his grip had ruined the perfect fall.

And then—something cracked open inside him.

He didn't plan it. One heartbeat he was the dragon devouring his prize, the next he was falling into her.

He kissed her again, softer—so achingly soft it felt like worship. His fingers loosened in her hair, cradling the nape of her neck instead of conquering it. The hand on her hip slid to the small of her back, palm spreading wide, simply holding her—feeling the delicate tremor that ran through her as she realized the shift.

Sierra made a tiny, confused sound against his lips, body instinctively arching closer, nipples tight and straining against the sheer lace as they brushed his chest.

But he didn't stop.

He brushed feather-light kisses along the corner of her mouth, the regal line of her cheek, the fragile skin beneath her eye where liner had smudged into smoky surrender.

Each touch reverent, savoring—as though he were mapping sacred ground he'd only just been granted permission to enter.

Her hands uncurled from his shirt, palms flattening over his pounding heart, then gliding up to rest on his shoulders with a tentative wonder that made his throat tight.

No words passed between them.

None were needed.

He drew back just enough to truly see her—this untouchable princess stripped bare of every defense—and found a girl trembling on the edge of something vast and unguarded.

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear with careful fingers.

Gods, Sierra, you're so beautiful...

She leaned into the touch like it was sunlight after years of winter.

Then they were kissing again, slow and deep—lips sliding, tongues tangling in lazy, exploratory strokes that asked instead of demanded. He learned the plush swell of her bottom lip, the sweet dip of her cupid's bow, the faint taste of mint and the warmer, secret flavor that was only her.

Sierra's hands rose to frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones with a tenderness that pierced straight through him—hesitant at first, then surer, as if discovering she was allowed this softness.

Her touch grew bolder, tracing the sharp cut of his jaw, fingertips brushing the pulse hammering at his throat.

This is her, he realized—the girl beneath the crown, warm and unguarded, melting against him with every breath.

He deepened the kiss on a low groan, and she sighed into him—a soft, yielding sound he drank like wine. Her body pressed closer, seeking, breasts crushing against his chest, hips cradling the heavy ache of his cock as her thighs parted just enough to let him settle between them.

His hands roamed without greed—gliding over the satin-covered curve of her waist, tracing the elegant arch of her spine, brushing the bare silk of her shoulders where the straps had slipped.

Every touch drew a shiver, a hitch of breath, a quiet, sweet sound that wasn't quite a moan—something purer, more vulnerable.

She was burning under his palms, alive and responsive in ways his calculated touches in the music room had never reached.

This wasn't conquest anymore. This was revelation.

Sierra broke first, tilting her forehead to his, eyes closed, breath trembling. "Phei," she whispered—just his name, raw and wondering, like a prayer.

He pressed gentle kisses to her forehead, her fluttering eyelids, the tip of her aristocratic nose.

A soft, startled laugh escaped her—light, surprised, the sound of hell ice finally thawing.

"What are you doing to me?" she breathed.

He silenced her with another slow, drugging kiss, swallowing the question, giving her the only answer he had.

They stayed pinned against the glass, city lights glittering like fallen stars behind them, trading endless, unhurried kisses.

Her fingers threaded gently through his hair, nails grazing his scalp in lazy circles that sent heat licking down his spine. His hands cupped her face like she was spun glass—something infinitely precious he was terrified to break, yet desperate to keep.

She tasted like surrender—the kind freely given, chosen in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

And in that moment, with her trembling softly in his arms and trusting him with every guarded piece of herself, Phei knew he would burn the world to be worthy of it.

His thumb stroked her jaw; she turned into his palm and pressed a lingering, tender kiss there—eyes lifting to his, liquid silver and utterly unguarded.

He was lost in them.

"I didn't know," she whispered, voice fragile as spun glass.

"Know what?"

"That it could feel like this." The words cracked open, raw and honest. "I thought—with you—it would be…"

"Rough?"

"Yes."

"It can be." He brushed his lips to hers again, feather-soft, lingering. "It will be. But not only that."

"What else?"

"This." Another slow, reverent kiss. "Whatever you need it to be."

Her storm-gray eyes searched his face—scanning for the lie, the power play, the cruelty she'd been taught to expect from every hand that reached for her crown.

She found nothing but truth.

Because in this suspended heartbeat, there was none.

Sierra rose on her toes and kissed him like she was anchoring herself to the earth—not demanding, not pleading, just fully, achingly present. Her tongue slid against his in gentle, seeking strokes, hands framing his face with trembling devotion, body melting into his until he could feel the frantic flutter of her heart against his chest.

Phei let himself sink into her, arms wrapping around the elegant curve of her waist, pulling her closer as though she were something sacred he was terrified to drop.

Just for now.

They drifted to the couch without urgency—her body curling into his side as if sculpted to fit there, head resting on his shoulder, chestnut hair spilling like silk across his chest.

Her fingers traced lazy, wondering patterns over his shirt, each touch a quiet question he answered by stroking her hair in slow, soothing passes.

She did purr then—a soft, contented hum that vibrated against his neck as she nuzzled closer.

"I didn't know you could be gentle," she murmured, lips brushing his skin.

"I didn't know you could be soft."

"I'm not soft."

"You are, princess." His voice was low, fond. "And it's fucking beautiful."

She didn't argue. Just pressed tighter, inhaling him like he was air she'd been denied for years.

"Phei?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For…" She hesitated, then let it out in a rush. "For not just taking. For giving me this first."

His hand stilled in her hair, then resumed—slower, more care than deliberate. "You deserved it," he said, and the honesty in it startled him as much as it seemed to startle her.

Sierra tilted her face up, eyes stripped of every last shard of ice. "I was terrible to you. Before. I was—"

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

Two words, offered like fragile crystal.

He kissed her forehead, lingering. "I know that too."

Silence stretched, warm and golden. The city glittered far below, oblivious.

Her fingers resumed their wandering—circles on his chest slowing, pausing, then drifting lower over the ridges of his abdomen, hesitant but resolute. Heat kindled beneath her touch, his cock stirring heavy against his thigh as her palm skimmed the waistband of his trousers.

"Phei?"

"Mm?"

"I'm ready."

He looked down. The softness in her eyes had darkened into something fierce and certain—want, trust, years of pent-up need blazing bright.

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything." Her hand slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips trembling against bare skin—tracing the hard planes of muscle with reverent hunger. "Please. I want—" Her breath caught. "I need you to be my first. I need you to make me yours. Completely. Tonight."

Phei searched her face for any flicker of doubt.

He found only open, aching certainty—a queen willingly laying her crown at his feet.

"Bedroom," she whispered, voice husky. "Please. Let it be special."

The dragon stirred, heat uncoiling low in his gut.

He rose, drawing her up with him—hand possessive at the small of her back, guiding her in the hallway toward the master suite. With every step the gentleness shifted, air thickening with promise, her breath quickening as she felt the change in his grip, in the way his thumb traced deliberate circles against her spine.

The ice queen had melted.

Now the woman rising from the water was ready to burn.

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