The air in the private chamber hung thick and heavy, a cloying mix of sweat, expensive perfume, and raw desire. It was the kind of air that clung to your skin, a humid blanket woven from the aftermath of intense passion.
Alaric, his muscles still taut from exertion, leaned over Ulyria, his breath coming in slow, steady exhales. Her skin, flushed a vibrant rose, contrasted starkly with the dark leather of the chaise lounge she lay upon. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, and her eyes, when they met his, held a mixture of lingering pleasure and dawning apprehension.
"So," Alaric began, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space, "tell me… what do I call you, sweetheart?" He traced a lazy circle on her arm with a calloused finger, the touch sending a shiver through her.
Ulyria's voice was barely a whisper, a breathy sound that seemed to catch in her throat. "Ulyria," she managed, her gaze flickering away from his, as if suddenly shy under his intense scrutiny.
