Phei's gaze lingered on the portraits for a long moment, as though measuring the distance between the versions of himself frozen on the walls and the man standing here now, breathing the same air as her at last.

Then, slowly, he turned fully toward Delilah.

The soft, rosy glow of the room wrapped around her like a secret kept too long, and for the first time, he truly looked—unhurried, reverent—at the face she had hidden behind polite smiles and careful distance for years.

Delilah's face was heart-shaped and delicately sculpted, the kind of beauty that felt both timeless and fragile, a soft rose that deepened now across the apples of her cheeks and down the slender column of her throat.

High, elegant cheekbones giving her an almost luminous quality, while a small, straight nose lent her features an aristocratic refinement that was unmistakably Maxton.

Her eyes were expressive in a way that made secrets impossible; every flicker of desire, every tremor of vulnerability, lived there openly now. Right now they shone with unshed moisture, not from fear but from the overwhelming relief of finally being seen.

Her mouth was the feature that undid him most: full, softly bowed lips the natural pink of rose petals, the lower one slightly fuller and still swollen from his earlier kisses. It trembled just a little as she breathed, parted on a silent exhale, inviting without meaning to.

A faint sheen of moisture lingered where his tongue had traced hers, making them look even more plush, more kiss-bruised.

Stray tendrils of her hair—thick, glossy waves of warm chestnut threaded with subtle gold highlights—had escaped their earlier elegance, curling softly around her face and brushing the fine line of her jaw. The rest cascaded over her shoulders in a silken tumble that caught the light like liquid amber.

Her neck was long and graceful, the skin there impossibly smooth, interrupted only by the frantic flutter of her pulse just beneath the surface.

A faint pink trail of his earlier kisses bloomed along the pale column, delicate marks that looked almost like watercolor against cream. The hollow at the base of her throat dipped gently with each quick breath, drawing his eye to the soft shadow between collarbones that peeked above the neckline of her pale silk dress.

She stood there, barefoot and flushed, every inch from her luminous face to the tender curve where neck met shoulder laid bare to him—not just skin, but the quiet, aching truth of how long she had carried him in her heart.

Phei took one slow step closer, voice barely above a whisper.

"You're even more beautiful than every stolen photograph," he said, the words rough with wonder. His fingertips hovered near her jaw, not quite touching, as though afraid the moment might vanish. "I could look at you like this forever… and it still wouldn't be enough."

Phei closed the distance between them in two slow strides, his violet eyes never leaving her face. The city lights flickered across his sharp features as he reached for her, fingertips brushing the delicate strap of her silk dress where it lay against her shoulder.

In the hush of the room—her secret shrine—he looked at her like she was the only miracle he had ever waited for.

"Let me see all of you," he whispered, voice low and velvet-rough—the same voice that had unraveled her all afternoon with every quiet word, every murmured answer across the dinner table.

That voice she had dreamed about for months, imagined pressed against her skin, speaking secrets only she could hear.

Delilah's breath trembled out of her. A soft, shaky "yes…" escaped her lips as she nodded, small and trusting, lifting her arms when he gathered the hem of her dress.

He drew it upward in one smooth, reverent motion, the pale silk whispering over her curves before he let it fall in a soft puddle at her feet.

The dress pooled like surrendered silk, leaving her utterly bare under the rose-gold glow—every guarded inch of her finally offered to the man whose portraits had watched over her lonely nights.

She stood naked before him now, bathed in the rose-gold glow of the room.

Her body was lush and womanly—full, heavy breasts with dusky-rose nipples already drawn tight from wanting, the dramatic dip of her waist flaring into rounded hips, and thighs that made his mouth water: soft, creamy, generously curved, the kind of thighs made for parting and worshiping.

A faint sheen of earlier arousal still glistened along the tender inner skin, and when she shifted nervously, they brushed together with a hushed, silky sound.

Phei's gaze traveled down the length of her, slow and deliberate, drinking in every inch he had only ever imagined. His breath caught audibly, a low, reverent exhale that made her skin prickle with fresh heat.

"There's an ottoman by the window," he murmured, lips curving in that devastating half-smile. "Sit for me, love."

Delilah backed the few steps to the wide, cream-upholstered ottoman beneath the city-view windows, sinking onto it with a soft exhale.

The velvet was cool against the heated skin of her backside and thighs, drawing a tiny, breathy "ahh…" from her lips.

He dropped gracefully to his knees in front of her, hands settling warmly on the backs of her thighs just above the knees.

Kneeling in the heart of her shrine, surrounded by his own frozen gazes on canvas, he looked up at her with something close to awe.

She parted her legs without being asked—slowly, shyly at first, then wider when she saw the raw hunger in his eyes. Her thighs trembled as they opened, a quiet, needy whimper—"Phei…"—slipping free as cool air kissed her slick, swollen folds.

He moved between them like a man approaching something sacred, hands sliding up the outsides of her thighs, thumbs tracing the soft, sensitive inner curves until she shivered. Each slow glide of his palms coaxed another soft sound from her—small, helpless "mmh…"s that rose and fell with every inch he claimed.

Delilah's thighs parted wider on the ottoman, the city lights casting a soft glow over her bare skin.

Between them, her pussy was on full, shameless display—plump outer lips flushed a deep, needy pink, parted just enough to frame the slick, swollen inner folds that gleamed wet and inviting. Thick strands of creamy arousal clung to every delicate petal, dripping slowly from her tight, clenching entrance in a glistening trail that slid down the curve of her ass and soaked into the velvet beneath her.

Her clit throbbed visibly—hard, shiny, and fully exposed, the sensitive pearl pulsing with every heartbeat as her hips rocked forward in a tiny, desperate plea, silently begging his mouth to claim it.

When he leaned in, his breath ghosted warm over her skin, and she caught the faint, clean scent of her still clinging to her—delicate notes of white peony and warm vanilla from the luxurious body wash she'd used that afternoon, now mingled with the deeper, intimate musk of her arousal.

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