The door hadn't even closed behind her before the silence thickened like smoke around him.
She was gone.
And yet, she wasn't.
He stood motionless in the corridor long after she fled.
His hand still hovered near the front of his trousers, shielding the hardened truth of his body from view, even though there was no one around to see. But it wasn't shame that rooted him, it was shock. A trembling disbelief that something so forbidden, so intimate, had just happened. And that it had shaken him to his very bones.
Eliza.
He hadn't meant to know her name. He had learned it in passing, from gossiping servants and the careful whispers of court women who spoke her name with admiration or envy. A princess, cloaked in silk and grace, with hair like fire and a mouth made for sonnets.
But nothing in those idle stories prepared him for the real thing.
He had imagined her from a distance, her hair cascading down her back, her lips parting in laughter he'd never heard. She was his muse, his distraction, the impossible beauty who stood behind glass. And today, that glass had shattered.
She had fallen into his arms. Literally.
He heard the soft click of her slippers echoing down the hall, growing louder with each step. As she approached, he watched, curiosity piqued about her destination. Before he could fully process the scene unfolding before him, she rounded the corner, her foot poised delicately to step on the oil paint.
He hadn't even realized he'd spilled the paint until he saw her foot slip, and instinct took over. He caught her with the speed of a man who had once known danger, once used his body to protect instead of create. Her soft frame collided with his, and the moment her breasts pressed against him, he felt it, the full weight of temptation.
But he hadn't let go.
He should have. The moment decency returned to him, the moment he registered her scent, jasmine and something warm, he should have let her go.
But he didn't.
Because she fit. Against him. Into him. As if fate had carved their bodies from the same breath and waited for this one reckless moment to bring them together.
And then…
Her ribbon slipped. Her hair fell. And those green eyes looked up at him like she wasn't sure whether to slap him or kiss him.
The weight of her still lingered, draped across his chest like a silken memory refusing to fade. He had not moved since she had fled, cheeks flushed and fingers trembling, clutching her bodice as if she could force modesty back into place. But it was far too late. The image had seared itself into him. The feel of her. The scent of her. The way her breasts had pressed against his chest, bare, defiant, impossibly soft.
He swallowed hard.
His hand rose slowly, shakily, as though he could still trace the path they had carved against him. Her nipples, tight, puckered, shamefully aroused had rubbed against his bare chest through the torn fabric of his shirt, and the friction had been unbearable in its pleasure. Like velvet tipped with fire.
He closed his eyes.
And there she was again.
Her hair, red as autumn leaves in firelight had come loose from its ribbon and fanned out wildly around her shoulders, catching the light as though the sun itself had tangled in her strands. But it was her breasts that consumed him. God help him, he had seen them. He had felt them.
Two perfect orbs, flushed from the fall, swaying lightly as if teasing him, inviting him, their curves framed in that moment of chaos and wonder. Her nipples, pink, like rosebuds kissed by dew had stiffened at the contact with his chest, and the thought made his breath catch. He could still feel them, impossibly real against his ribs, as if her body had branded his.
He reached blindly behind him, one hand gripping the rough edge of his workbench for balance, the other hovering over the place on his chest where she had touched him. That sacred place. He was almost afraid to touch it, as if doing so would shatter the memory or wake him from some fevered dream.
He should have let her go the moment they stumbled. Should have stepped back, bowed, apologized.
But he hadn't.
Because for a few stolen seconds, she was not a princess. She was not forbidden. She was not a symbol of virtue or power.
She was a woman. Warm. Wild. Real.
And she had fallen into his arms with all the softness and heat of temptation incarnate.
But what destroyed him, what undid him entirely, was when her breasts tumbled free.
He hadn't meant to look. Gods help him, he tried to keep his gaze chaste. But they moved, bounced against his chest with sweet defiance, nipples tightening to sharp little peaks that grazed his skin like firebrands. His cock swelled instantly, painfully, betraying every secret he kept buried.
And then she looked at him.
And he saw it, raw, aching desire. Mirroring his own. Unspoken. Unbidden. But there.
He groaned under his breath and finally leaned against the cold stone wall, letting his head fall back with a dull thud. The memory of her nipples against his chest pulsed like a brand. The way she'd gasped. The flush of her cheeks. The way her eyes flicked to the bulge in his trousers before darting away.
She wanted him.
Just for a moment. Maybe only in confusion. But it had been real.
And it terrified him.
Because he was no one. A painter. A man with a shadowed past and no name worth speaking aloud in court. And she was the king's daughter.
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
And now? Now that he'd felt her breasts against his chest? Now that he'd seen what her lips looked like parted with breath and flushed with heat?
He was ruined.
There was no going back. No painting that would satisfy him. No quiet night that wouldn't replay the moment she wiggled in his lap and made his cock twitch
with the need to claim.
He was a fool.
And he wanted her more than his next breath.