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Raphael is many things—and capable of many more. You know this; the wretched debtors that haunt the halls of this house are proof enough. But this room, this boudoir… this is a space built for pleasure. Even the magic here is warm and sensuous, indulgent as the red silk cushions that litter the carpets like fat droplets of blood. It beckons to you—playfully, flirtatiously, it beckons. This is the kind of magic that drives a soul to madness. And, yet, you sense that it will not hurt you. Not in any way you would not ask for.
You feel, suddenly, almost lightheaded with desire.
One sidelong look at Gale tells you that you are not alone. His eyes are dark, lips parted, handsome features drawn in an expression eerily similar to the one he wears just before he fucks you senseless. It’s the same one he wears when afforded the opportunity to explore new and forbidden magics: greedy. Possessive. Just this side of lust-drunk. Seeing him this way never fails to thrill you; even now, inopportune as the moment may be, your heartbeat ratchets up to a rapid, needy thrum.