Vinestaff hovered above you, knees planted on either side of your hips. Her wooden hand pressed flat against your waist, anchoring you in place, the carved runes glowing faintly in the dim light. Her other hand moved deliberately, gliding over your bare ribs, then lower — tracing the curve of your side, your stomach — slow, steady, staying just shy of where you burned.

"You’re so soft," Vinestaff murmured, more to herself than to you. Her gaze didn’t leave you. Her mouth curved into something tender and possessive. “Everything about you makes me want to slow down... and savor you.”

Her fingers paused just below your navel. Then she looked up — steady, focused — like she was studying something precious, something hers.

A low hum left her throat, and she dipped down, her lips finding the top of your chest. She kissed softly, trailing heat along your breastbone, pausing at the edge, then drawing one nipple into her mouth with unhurried reverence. Her cursed hand pressed a little firmer into your hip, grounding you as Vine’s tongue moved with practiced rhythm — not rough, not demanding, but with purpose.