Erik Nordström | First night

He’d bathed. He’d prepared. Someone—younger, too cheery, and frankly suicidal—had even adjusted his cravat again, to which Erik had responded by promptly yanking the thing loose the moment they left the room. As though this were some ceremonial duel where presentation would weigh heavier than performance. It was all so fucking tedious, the endless parade of polite smiles, the cloying scent of lavender soap, and the hushed words exchanged between servants as they scurried about like nervous mice.

But now, now the time had come. Finally. Every second of agony had built to this, and as the door creaked open and he was allowed in—allowed, as though he were some prize stud horse about to service a particularly high-bred mare—he was half-ready to storm in and make a scene just because.

Then he saw her.

And stopped. Just—stopped, mid-step, mid-breath, mid-everything.

Whatever cutting thought he’d had about the absurdity of the situation shattered like brittle ice under a hammer. Every ounce of control he’d carefully cultivated, every strategy he’d laid out in his mind, was unceremoniously flung out the window the moment his eyes landed on her. She sat on the bed with her back to him, her long, hair cascading over one shoulder like some sinful swath of silk. The light from the low-burning candles turned her skin into something unholy—golden, glowing, entirely too tempting to be real. She was draped in this absolutely indecent wisp of fabric that had the audacity to call itself a nightgown. Sheer, almost translucent in parts, it clung to her figure in ways that should’ve been outlawed.

She was beautiful in a way that felt cruel now, as though every subtle curve and line were deliberately crafted to test his control. Her breasts pressed against the sheer fabric of that absurd nightgown, full, round, with nipples that puckered slightly in the cool air—or maybe in anticipation. The delicate tuft of hair visible below the maddeningly flimsy fabric made his throat dry and his cock throb with such anger that it bordered on its own kind of violence. She wasn’t a girl, no. That artifice of innocence she so skillfully wielded in public burned away before his eyes. She was a woman. Soft, perfect, his.

And that ridiculous torment of fabric? He couldn't stand it anymore. The thing was a mockery of decency, teasing him with what it almost revealed, what it wasn’t quite hiding. His teeth ground together as the sight of her ignited a singular, primal thought that pounded in his head with brutal repetition: pin her down.

Tear it apart.

Pull her beneath him and fuck her until there wasn’t an ounce of said composure left in her body.

The tension in his trousers was far past unbearable now. His cock strained against the confining material, the tip pressed almost painfully against the inside of the waistband. He wanted her heat—needed it—with the kind of desperation that unraveled even the most disciplined of men. His member ached, a deep, persistent pulse that screamed for attention, for release. But no, it wasn’t just release he wanted. Not with her.

Erik’s vision blurred around the edges, a reddish haze creeping into his periphery like the remnants of a pyre still smoldering in his chest. Madness, pure and unfiltered, sang in his veins, heat coursing from his brain to his cock like a battle drum hammering through bone. This, he thought in some detached corner of his mind, must be how they felt—his ancestors. Those wild, untamed brutes who pillaged and burned their way through enemies with no thought for mercy or self-restraint. Maybe some of that blood still ran in his veins, because he felt like he was about to split her soul with the same savagery as if she were an enemy battlefield.

Except... God help him, she was the opposite of an enemy, wasn’t she?

His fingers made quick work of that ridiculous excuse for a nightgown. No, scratch that—"made quick work" implied some patience or care. What actually happened was this: his hands hooked into the fabric and tore. There was no pause to appreciate the craftsmanship or fret over the waste of it. It was a fucking insult, that nightgown. A feeble, fluttering boundary standing in the way of what he’d been denied all goddamn day. The sound of tearing fabric was viciously satisfying, and far louder than he'd expected—halfway between a roar and a moan from the thing as it surrendered under his grip.

The moment the gauzy scrap disintegrated under his hands, Erik had her pinned beneath him. His body drove hers back against the mattress with enough force to make the crisp sheets rustle and shift around her. Her hair—God help him, her hair—splayed out like silk across the pale expanse of linen, tangled and wild. It was the perfect frame, the kind of picture that should’ve stopped him in his tracks, demanded appreciation, and given him pause. Except no. He didn’t pause. Couldn’t pause. Because the beast roaring in his chest demanded he take, conquer, and ruin.

He grabbed her wrists, one in each massive hand, and stretched her arms above her head with enough pressure to ensure no resistance. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t meant to be. His grip was firm, unyielding, because if there was one thing Erik couldn’t risk, it was her. Specifically, her doing something foolish—something dangerous—like sliding those soft hands across his chest. That particular battlefield was off-limits. If she touched him there, if she ran those fingers over scars and skin warmed by barely-contained rage, he wasn’t sure what kind of man would remain by the time she was done.

Instead, he secured her, immobilizing her as though she might otherwise slip from his grasp like water from a clenched fist. With her wrists safely pinned, his other hand—his free hand, the hand that now felt like an extension of that primal beast—began its descent. Exploratory. Strategic. Deadly. His palm glided down her arm, then over the line of her collarbone, his fingertips brushing the impossible softness of her skin. It was skin that didn’t belong to this world, skin too delicate for someone like him. Fuck, she was soft everywhere—too soft, too warm, too fucking inviting for a man who made his bed with daggers and distrust.

His lips followed soon after, mapping a path he already knew too well but never grew tired of exploring. The line of her throat, pale and slender, was an offering he took with teeth and tongue. He kissed her there, slowly at first, his mouth parting against her pulse point, tasting salt and heat and fucking her. But slow was a lie, wasn’t it? A prelude before the storm gathered its strength. The kisses grew rougher, angrier—with what, he didn’t know. The things she’d said to him? The looks? The games? Her audacity to be this perfect and untouched and entirely out of her depth with a man like him? Yes. All of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe just her.

His hand moved lower, sliding over her ribs, his touch firm enough to draw subtle catches in her breath. His fingers found the curve of her waist, then lower, over hips. Hips he now claimed with his entire span of his palm, squeezing with the kind of controlled aggression that said, These belong to me now. No one else will ever touch you like this. Not ever.