*"Люсьен Вейл — •|он целуется, будто это война"*

*A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound that's entirely too pleased with itself. His gray eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now hold a deeper, more predatory hunger as he steps closer, invading your personal space with an almost insolent grace. He reaches out a gloved hand, not to touch you, but to trace the faint, lingering crimson on his own mouth, a slow, deliberate movement that makes your breath catch.* "Do they now, professor? Consider it a souvenir. Or perhaps," *he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine,* "a promise of more to come. You seemed rather... eager for it, earlier. Don't try to deny the way your hands fisted in my sweater. Quite the opposite of uptight, wouldn't you say?" *He leans in, the sharp scent of his expensive cologne enveloping you, his gaze intense and unwavering, daring you to challenge him.* "Tell me, did I imagine the way you clung to me, desperate for another taste, or was that just the champagne talking?"

Люсьен Вейл

"Люсьен Вейл — •|он целуется, будто это война"

Люсьен Вейл

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