Andy straightened from the bow with a slow, deliberate grace, eyes locked on Summer like a predator who'd found his favourite hunt. The velvet of his coat whispered as he crossed the room in measured steps, every inch the scandalous lord with time and temptation on his side.

  "You know," he said, his voice low and almost conversational, "there's a certain kind of pleasure in drawing out surrender. In watching pride become breathless curiosity. Defiance..." He reached her, letting one gloved finger trail along the bare skin of her shoulder, "...turn into desire."

  Summer tilted her head just slightly, refusing to give him the full satisfaction of eye contact, but the flush rising to her cheeks betrayed her.

  "I'm not that easy, my lord," she said lightly, though her voice had softened.

  Andy smiled like he already knew the ending to this story. "That's why I'm so patient." He stepped closer, now directly behind her, and brushed her copper hair aside to expose her neck. "But let me be clear — tonight, I will seduce you. Not with tricks. Not with velvet and cravats." His lips hovered just above her skin. "But with all the ways I know how to worship something beautiful."

  Summer tensed, her hands tightening at her sides. She was still pretending. Barely. "I didn't ask to be worshipped," she whispered.

  "You didn't have to," Andy said, finally pressing a kiss to her nape. "You walked into my life wearing moonlight and made every other devotion feel hollow."

  She trembled, visibly now. "You're not supposed to say things like that." He heard the rasp of ancient aches underlying those words.

  "Why?" he murmured into her skin. "Because they're true?"

  His hands slid to her waist, light but certain, and he guided her to turn, facing him. He didn't kiss her yet. He simply looked — studied her like something rare and untouchable, like he was reverent of her and also quietly desperate for her.

  Then, softly, as if offering a promise rather than a proposition: "Let me make tonight a memory that belongs to no one else. No stage. No contract. Just you. Just us."

  Summer's defiance wavered, her gaze dropping to the line of his throat, the open collar beneath the cravat's elegant knot. She was silent for a long beat. Then she murmured, "If I say no?"

  Andy's smile turned gentle, real. "Then I'll dance with you until your feet ache and recite every line of Rumi I can remember. I'll sit beside you in silence if that's what you need. Seduction isn't conquest, Summer. It's invitation."

  That undid her. Not the poetry, not the velvet, not even the promise of sin — but that. Her hands found the lapels of his coat, and she pulled him close — not all the way, but enough that the distance between them could no longer pretend to be casual. "You're infuriating," she said.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "I know," Andy whispered, brushing his nose to hers. "But I'd spend the rest of my life trying to earn your forgiveness."

  Then, finally, she kissed him — slow and deep and deliberate, not an answer but an invitation of her own.

  Andy didn't deepen the kiss — not yet. He lingered in it like one savours the first sip of something rare and warming, then pulled back with a hushed exhale, eyes glinting with satisfaction. His hands were steady as he reached for the small vintage turntable near the bookcase. He flipped through a few records with discerning fingers, the quiet scratch of sleeves and vinyl filling the space while Summer stood in the centre of the room, catching her breath.

  Then the music began.

  A slow, mournful waltz spilled into the apartment — strings rich and full, piano drifting underneath like mist over water. Romantic, unmistakably so. European. Timeless. Andy turned back to her as if nothing at all had changed — but now the lighting felt dimmer, the room smaller, the air heavier.

  She barely noticed when he took her hand again. He didn't ask. He didn't have to. He just stepped into her space like he'd always belonged there and drew her against him once more.

  This time, they truly danced.

  Andy waltzed like he'd been born with ballroom blood — spine tall, movements fluid, not overly showy but precise. He guided her through each measure like he was writing something on her skin with each step. Not a single motion was wasted. His gloved hand stayed secure at her back, his other cradling her fingers, and his gaze rarely left her face.

  But it wasn't just a dance.

  It was a slow burn.

  He murmured compliments between turns — close to her ear, where his breath could skim her skin.

  "Do you know what you look like in this light?"

  "You're dangerous when you pretend not to want me."

  "Every time you breathe, I forget what I was going to say."

  He slid his fingers down the exposed line of her back, teasing the silk's edge as they spun. He dipped her without warning, held her low until her breath caught and her eyes flicked wide, then brought her back up with maddening gentleness.

  And when the music swelled, he stepped behind her again, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder.

  Summer was trembling.

  He'd barely touched her — not in any way even Regency society would have counted as scandalous — but she was breathless, hot beneath her skin, aching in some desperate, low way she couldn't rationalize.

  "Andy," she said thickly.

  "Yes?" His voice was pure velvet.

  "You're — this is — " She pressed a hand to his chest, needing something solid to hold onto. "You're unfair."

  He turned her in place, lifted her hand, brushed his lips across her knuckles again — soft, reverent.

  "I warned you," he said. "I don't seduce quickly. I seduce thoroughly."

  Summer laughed raggedly. "I hate how good you are at this."

  Andy leaned close, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. "But you love that it's all for you."

  She did. God, she did. She clutched his coat now, pulling him flush against her, heart pounding beneath the bodice's seams. "Andy. Stop teasing."

  "Is that what you want?" he asked, voice low and wicked.

  "I want you to take me to bed."

  He smiled like a wish granted. "Then I shall retire with the lady immediately."

  He swept her into his arms without hesitation — strong and sure, lifting her like she weighed nothing. Summer gasped, startled, laughing despite herself.

  He kissed her temple. "No more dancing tonight," he murmured as he carried her back down the hallway. "Just worship."

  And he meant every word.