I press my palm against the antique mantel, tracing the carved acanthus leaves and swollen moldings until each knot and groove of the dark mahogany bites into my skin. The brass pendulum swings so slowly it seems suspended in time, its burnished surface mottled with verdigris. Each lazy arc echoes with the thunder of my pulse through the silent parlor. A wicked grin tugs at my lips as the clock’s second hand stalls—hesitates—then creeps forward again, every tick a hammer blow driving me nearer to Bill.

The dining room hums with feverish expectation. Eight chairs of polished walnut flank the table, their plush velvet cushions fluffed to pillowy heights. Along the tabletop, cream-colored candles stand in a perfect semicircle, pale beeswax flames trembling like captive fireflies, casting slender, serpent-tongued shadows that writhe across the silk-damask walls. From the oven drifts the heady aroma of garlic-and-herb–crusted chicken: rosemary’s piney needles, a whisper of thyme, the sizzle of hot oil seeping into crackling skin. Beneath it, the heavy perfume of crimson roses—petals unfurling like velvet secrets—wafts from slender glass vases. In the middle of this circle glows an amber pillar candle, its wick reduced to a blackened nub, the golden flame fluttering as if it, too, anticipates what’s to come.

My fingertips graze the rim of a hammered-silver ice bucket, sending tiny cracks of frost spiraling under my touch, as if the ice itself were glass shattering. Inside, like a field of miniature stars, cling shards of ice that gleam against the silver. Nearly buried is a champagne bottle cloaked in tarnished foil, its neck beaded with condensation. My hand drifts up, smoothing over the silk of my scarlet dress—liquid in hue, cut on the bias so that the fabric stretches and clings to every curve of my hips and waist, cool against skin that burns with anticipation. Tonight, I know, I’ll ignite those familiar dark eyes.

Then I hear it: the front door’s soft click, leather brushing oak. I melt into the shadows behind the table—an heirloom of inlaid marquetry—pressing my spine against its polished edge. The grain feels cool. I sense each slender ridge under my back as I arch into an impossibly seductive S-curve. The scrape of shoes on hardwood, the muffled thump of a briefcase… and then Bill’s voice, low and hesitant: “Michelle?”

“In here,” I purr, letting my voice drift like velvet across the threshold.

He steps into the candlelight—his tie loosened, silk patterned, now rumpled; sleeves rolled high above strong forearms revealing the fine web of veins. A crease of exhaustion mars his brow, and his trousers whisper with the motion of unfastened buttons. He takes in the room’s glow, the scent of spices and roses, then finds me: the curve of my silhouette, the sheen of scarlet against ivory. His breath hitches, jagged and shallow.

“God, Michelle,” he murmurs, voice thick with longing.

I rise, my stilettos clicking a staccato invitation on the floorboards, closing the distance in three deliberate, sinuous steps. My lips brush the hollow of his throat, tasting the warm tremor of his pulse.

“Happy anniversary, baby.” I thread my fingers under the knot of his tie, the silk sliding through my fingertips, then trail my touch up to the ridge of his Adam’s apple.

He shivers beneath me; his hands slither around my waist, drawing me flush against the heat of his body.

“Tonight, just us,” I murmur, tilting my head so that my words fall across his ear like a caress. My fingertip drifts down his chest, following the taut planes of muscle beneath gleaming skin.

He groans—a low, primal sound that reverberates through my bones. “You are…incredible.”

At that, I seize the moment, twisting the champagne’s cork free with a sharp snap that cracks like lightning. Bubbles surge up in golden rivulets, fizzing as I pour the liquid light into two crystal flutes. “To the man who still sets my blood ablaze,” I toast, the crystal chiming in his hand.

Bill raises his glass, gaze smoldering as he watches the curve of my lips. He sets it aside, fingers drifting down my spine to the zipper at my waist. Before I can warn him, his tongue brushes the tender column of my neck, each flick a promise.

“I’m starving for something…more delicious,” he rasps, his fingers catching the zipper’s pull and drawing it down in a rhythm as slow and intoxicating as a pulse.

The silk dress slips away in a whisper, pooling at my ankles like spun flame. Bill’s eyes roam over my lace-trimmed curves, breath coming in shallow, eager gulps. “After two years,” he rasps, “I still can’t believe this is real.”

A moan slips from me as I tug at the collar of his shirt. He fumbles—buttons and fabric falling away under my hands—until his chest is bare to my touch. I lean forward, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. “The table,” I hiss.

In a single movement, he lifts me off the floor, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The table’s polished wood meets my thighs—cool, unyielding—while candles flare and shadows dance wildly around us. I can feel the tremor in his arms as he sets me down, the thrum of his heart in sync with mine.

His mouth claims mine—hungry, demanding—the taste of champagne and rose petals mingling on our tongues. I arch into him, fingers tangling in the dark curls at his nape as he trails fevered kisses down my throat. Around us, the candlelight fractures over silverware that rattles to the floor, clattering like notes of a mad symphony.

One hand teases the bow at my hip, undoing straps of lace until the fabric falls open. The air thickens, humid with our mingled breath and the electric charge of want. He presses me flat against the table; I lean back, offering my collarbone to his mouth. His lips map paths across my skin as though discovering a secret landscape.

“Bill,” I whimper, voice ragged, craving more. He grins—a wild, feral glint in his eyes—and lifts one leg, draping it over his shoulder. Then, with precise, deliberate movements, he frees himself from his trousers. Candlelight flickers over the planes of his body, half-hidden in shadow, half-bathed in molten gold.

He positions himself at my entrance, and in one fluid motion, he slides into me. The table groans beneath our weight, its lacquered surface quivering as silverware rattles in abandonment. He anchors one hand behind my back, the other slipping beneath me to tilt my hips, driving us together in a rhythm that both bruises and blesses.

I cry out—part pleasure, part surrender—when his whispered command curls through me: “Look at me.” I lift my head, meeting his gaze: pupils dark as cooled embers.

“I want to watch you come apart,” he breathes, each thrust a hammer of need. Shadows quake on the wall as he drives deeper, and a final, shuddering wave of ecstasy rips through me. I scream his name, nails digging into the wood beneath, and he follows seconds later, body shuddering against mine, his voice lost in the gasp of our release.

We collapse into a tangle of limbs and scattered lace, hearts pounding in perfect unison. The candles have guttered into molten wax pools, glowing like scarlet tears across the table. Bill brushes a fingertip along my collarbone, the feral hunger of moments ago melting into tender warmth.

“Best anniversary dinner ever,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, pressing a kiss beneath my ear.

I laugh—a breathless whisper. “We never even ate.”

He flashes that boyish grin. “Who needs food? Though maybe we should move before we shock the neighbors.”

I glance through the sheer curtains at the moonlit street. “Let them watch,” I whisper, a thrill coiling in my chest.

With effortless strength he lifts me again, my legs dangling as I press against his warmth. “The chicken’s stone-cold,” I admit, voice soft.

He buries his face in my neck. “I’ll heat it up,” he croons. “Or we could skip straight to dessert.”

“Dessert?” I arch an eyebrow, my heart fluttering.

He lowers his voice to a throaty caress. “Chocolate body paint—the kind we found in Napa.”

My pulse races at the memory. “You remembered.”

He smiles against my skin. “I remember every inch of you.” His fingertips trace a lazy path down my spine as he carries me toward the kitchen, leaving behind the glowing ruins of our passion—and promising a sweetness that will burn even hotter.

The kitchen welcomes us with its cool marble and gleaming copper pots suspended overhead. Bill sets me on the countertop, the granite chilling my heated skin as he reaches into the cabinet above the refrigerator. His muscles flex beneath his skin—a dance of sinew and strength that makes my mouth water.

"Found it," he murmurs, withdrawing a small jar of dark chocolate. The label bears the vineyard's elegant script, a souvenir from that weekend when we'd stumbled upon the boutique shop nestled between rows of Cabernet vines. I remember how the shopkeeper had winked knowingly as she wrapped it in tissue paper.

Bill unscrews the lid, the rich cocoa scent filling the space between us. He dips one finger into the silky mixture, then traces a slow line from my collarbone to the valley between my breasts. The chocolate is cool at first but quickly warms against my skin. I shiver as he lowers his mouth to follow the trail he's painted, his tongue working in deliberate, languid strokes that leave me gasping.

"Still tastes like that night," he whispers against my skin. "Remember how we couldn't wait to get back to the hotel?"

I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging gently as memories flood back—the vineyard cottage, windows thrown open to the summer night, cicadas singing as we christened every surface. "The innkeeper knew exactly what we'd been doing."

Bill's laugh vibrates against my ribcage. "Worth every judgmental glance at breakfast."

He paints another dark line across my stomach, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. The kitchen light catches the chocolate's sheen, making it glisten like obsidian against my flushed skin. His tongue follows, each stroke sending electric shocks through my core. I arch beneath him, the marble counter cold against my shoulder blades as heat pools low in my belly.

"My turn," I breathe, taking the jar from his hands. His eyes darken as I dip two fingers into the chocolate, and then trace spirals across his chest. The mixture catches in the hollow of his throat, and I lean forward to claim it with my tongue, tasting salt and sweetness mingled together.

He groans, hands gripping my thighs as I work my way lower, painting abstract patterns across his torso. When I reach the taut plane of his stomach, he shudders, his breathing ragged.

"Michelle," he warns, voice strained.

I look up at him through my lashes, chocolate still warm on my lips. "What's wrong, baby? Can't handle a little dessert?"

His response is to capture my mouth in a fierce kiss, chocolate melting between our tongues. The jar slips from my fingers, clattering against the granite as his hands tangle in my hair. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, pupils blown wide with desire.

"You're playing with fire," he growls, his voice rough velvet in the dim kitchen light.

"Then burn me," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer.

He lifts me from the counter in one fluid motion, my back meeting the cool steel of the refrigerator. The contrast sends a shiver through me—his burning skin pressed against mine while the metal chills my spine. Magnets and photos scatter to the floor, but neither of us cares.

"Two years," he murmurs against my throat, "and you still drive me absolutely wild."