*Midnight*

Midnight draped itself over London like black silk, heavy and cool against bare skin. She stood at the Embankment railing, coat unbelted, the Thames breathing slow silver beneath her. The wind off the water found every open seam—sliding beneath the hem of her skirt, tracing the lace tops of her thigh-highs, kissing the naked curve where silk ended and skin began. She felt exposed in the most exquisite way, as though the city itself had undressed her with patient, invisible hands.

He stepped from the shadow of the plane tree without sound, coatless, sleeves turned back to reveal forearms corded with quiet strength. The streetlamp caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint sheen of stubble, the way his dark eyes seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. He stopped close enough that she could taste cedarwood and clean male skin on the air between them.

“You’re shivering,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges like whisky poured over gravel.

“Not from the cold.”

A slow smile curved his mouth—dangerous, knowing. He lifted one hand, knuckles grazing the side of her throat, then down, following the open V of her coat until his fingertips brushed the uppermost swell of her breast. The silk of her blouse was thin; her nipples had already peaked into tight, aching points that strained against lace and fabric alike. He circled one with a single fingertip—once, twice—watching her lips part on a sound she couldn’t quite swallow.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

She tilted her head back against the railing instead, offering more throat, more skin. “Don’t.”