Part 6: The Rooms Remember

To Want is common Coin; to speak it is dear. Desire stumbleth in Darkness, but Confession boweth in the Light.

— Testament of Elias Harrow, 1764

Dust hung in the chamber like a veil, catching in the cone of Clara’s flashlight. She clutched it against her chest as if it could protect her from what was far more dangerous than the house: the man sitting inches away. Dylan’s handprint still burned through her sleeve where he had steadied her. It was a ridiculous thing, how a touch that brief could feel like an ownership mark.

She dared a glance. He was angled slightly toward her, as though he meant to rise but hadn’t yet found the will. His profile was calm, courteous even, but the muscles at his jaw ticked faintly. His hands were folded on his knees, too formal, as though keeping them from betraying him.

If I move, it’ll happen. If I don’t, it’ll ache forever.

Dylan forced his gaze to the opposite wall, to the foxed mirrors that shimmered faintly, though he knew too well that every nerve in him strained toward her. His cock throbbed in time with his pulse, humiliatingly insistent. So much for restraint. I should say something. Or leave. Or—God help me—kiss her and end this torment.

The velvet couch sighed beneath their weight, softening as if it wished to press them closer. The air warmed, carrying a faint perfume—musk and rot and something sweet. Clara shivered, though the heat was unmistakable.

“Clara.” His voice was low, pitched almost like a question.

She startled at her own name. Her stomach plunged. He had said her name before, but never like this—never thickened with hunger. He wants this. He does. Or am I imagining it? Her breath trembled in her chest.

She turned toward him. Slowly, so slowly, as if the act of turning were more intimate than the kiss itself. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve. The contact sent a flare straight to her breasts, her nipples tightening painfully against her bra.

Dylan inhaled sharply. He clenched his hands tighter. His body was already leaning, betraying the words he didn’t say. One taste, and I’ll never stop. I should hold back. I should—no. Not tonight.

They hovered. Inches apart.

Clara saw details she shouldn’t: the tiny scar at his hairline, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his lips parted just slightly when he drew breath. She wanted to trace that scar, to taste the salt at his skin. Her thighs pressed together of their own accord.

The silence stretched so taut it rang.

It was the sort of pause that feels endless, though it never is. Few die of anticipation; many live too long in it. This one would not. Not tonight.

Clara leaned forward a fraction. He leaned, too. Then stopped. They hovered in the painful gravity of almost-touch, both waiting for the other to cross it. Her heart banged against her ribs. If he doesn’t, I will. If I don’t, I’ll break.

Their foreheads brushed first—awkward, accidental. She made a soft sound, half-laugh, half-broken sob. Dylan let out a shaky exhale, a sound that was more confession than breath.

Then their mouths met.

Clumsy, almost bruising, lips colliding too fast. She caught his lower lip with her teeth; he bumped her nose with his. For a heartbeat they froze, embarrassed, poised to retreat.

But hunger was faster than shame.

The kiss deepened at once, his mouth claiming hers with the force of weeks of restraint tearing loose. Clara gasped into him, then melted, clutching his shoulder as if the earth had shifted. Her body sang, the ache between her legs pulsing wet and hot, a tide she couldn’t deny.

Dylan groaned low, into her mouth. His hand rose to cup her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone as though she were both porcelain and fire. His cock swelled harder, trapped and aching in his trousers, every brush of her thigh a cruel reminder. He wanted—God, he wanted.

They broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads still pressed together, lips slick with each other. Their breaths mingled, ragged, shared.

Clara blinked, dazed. I’m doing this. I’m not running.

Dylan swallowed hard. So much for manners. If she asks, I’ll give her everything.

The first kiss is always a surrender: a white flag raised by the mouth. Velvet can smother sound, but not a heartbeat—nor the certainty that more will follow.

The kiss had left them trembling, but not sated. Clara pulled back an inch, trying to catch her breath, but the ache in her chest only worsened. Dylan’s forehead still rested against hers, his breath quick, his lips wet. Neither moved away.

The velvet beneath them seemed to shift, welcoming, a slow exhale that deepened the couch’s embrace. Clara felt herself sliding toward him, her body conspiring against her resolve.

Then the mirrors stirred.

At first she thought it was her own reflection quivering in the silver. But no—her mirrored self had already gone further, blouse undone, nipples bared, Dylan’s hands rough on her waist. Another panel flickered with his reflection: his cock already freed, sliding between her thighs as she arched against him.