Damon stood there, motionless like a reluctant sentinel, while the door bell tinkled in the background with the arrival of new customers.

The air in the shop was thick with a subtle perfume, which only served to intensify the feeling that he had been dragged into a sensory ambush.

He crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall next to the fitting room, pretending to examine a shelf of lace gloves that didn’t interest him in the slightest.

On the other side of the burgundy velvet curtain, a soft rustle could be heard. Fabrics sliding against skin. The sound of a zipper being pulled slowly, deliberately slowly. His brain, the traitor that it was, began to fill in the gaps with images he knew he shouldn’t cultivate.

“Are you still there?” came Morgana’s voice, low and provocative, filtered through the thick fabric.

“Where else would I be?” he replied dryly. “Did I flee to the armory?”

A muffled laugh. “Still thinking about swords. How predictable.”

The rustling stopped. Silence. Then, the sound of light heels against the polished wooden floor.

The curtain opened just enough for Morgana to emerge, not completely, as he had hoped, but enough for her to pull him inside and see…

Saw absolutely everything.

The lingerie was surreal, as if woven from forbidden dreams and living shadows.

A set of pure black lace, so fine and translucent that it captured the light from the shop’s crystal lamps, transforming it into an ethereal glow.

The bodice embraced her torso like a second skin, with lace edges that rose to her shoulders in delicate strips, leaving her shoulders exposed and her collarbone marked by subtle veins beneath her pale skin.

The neckline plunged deep, in a daring V that accentuated the full curve of her breasts, the lace blossoming like dark vines around her nipples, which peeked out pink and hardened beneath the almost nonexistent fabric.

Her panties were completely visible; he could almost see her intimate parts. They were lace and accompanied by a black garter belt that held her silk stockings up to her knees, stretching with perfect tension over her soft skin.

But it was the details that struck him like a blow: her black hair, loose and wild, cascading down her bare back like a curtain of liquid ebony, framing her serene face.

And her eyes—ah, her golden eyes, shining with a feline, predatory intensity, fixed on his as if daring him to look away. They seemed to pulse with inner light, contrasting with the darkness of the lingerie, making her a vision of a dark goddess, dangerous and irresistibly alive.

Damon felt the air leave his lungs. His body reacted before his mind: his pulse quickened, heat rose to his neck, and an uncomfortable stiffness settled below his waist, pressing against the leather of his trousers.

He swallowed hard, the muscles of his jaw tensing as he struggled to maintain his composure. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t human. It was a calculated sight to disarm him, and it worked perfectly.

Morgana turned slowly, a fluid movement that made the lace whisper against her skin, revealing her bare back crisscrossed by thin ribbons that descended to the curve of her buttocks. The garter stretched with the movement, highlighting her toned thighs, and she paused, her back to him for a moment, looking over her shoulder with those flaming golden eyes.

“So?” she asked, her voice a low purr, laden with satisfaction. “What do you think? Does it suit me?”

He blinked, forcing the words out. “You… look like a walking trap.”

“Good,” she murmured, turning to face him again, taking a step closer. Her perfume enveloped him—now more intense, mingled with the warmth of her skin. “Because I am one.”

Damon instinctively recoiled against the wall, but his eyes betrayed him, traveling down her body, lingering on how the lace molded her breasts, the subtle shadow between her thighs. “Morgana, this is… too dangerous for a shop.”

She laughed, a guttural, sensual sound, and reached out, lightly touching his chest with her lace-gloved fingers—no, it was just his imagination. “Dangerous for whom? For you?” Her golden eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from her. “Or for me?”

He gripped her wrist—gently, but firmly—stopping her from getting any closer. “For both of us. If I touch that now, Elizabeth will kill me. Or worse, you will.”

Morgana didn’t back down. Instead, she tilted her head, her dark hair brushing against his arm. “And what if I want you to touch it?”

The air crackled between them. Damon felt the desire pulsing, hot and insistent, the erection now painfully evident. He released her wrist, but didn’t look away from those golden eyes. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I am the fire,” she whispered, her lips curving into a predatory smile. Then, with torturous slowness, she turned and went back to the fitting room, leaving the curtain ajar just enough for him to see her reflection in the mirror—the garter stretching as she bent, her dark hair dancing, her golden eyes still fixed on him through the glass.

“Wait here,” she said, before closing the curtain completely. “There’s still more to experience.”

Damon slid down the wall to sit in a nearby armchair, running his hands over his face, his heart pounding. “This is going to kill me,” he murmured to himself.

Damon sank further into the armchair, his hands pressed against his temples, trying to ignore the distant murmur of customers in the main store and the treacherous sound of his own accelerated breathing.

The fitting room was a cocoon of tension, isolated enough that no one would interrupt them—or so he hoped. His body still throbbed with the aftermath of the previous sight, the insistent erection pulsing like a cruel reminder of his lack of self-control.

On the other side of the curtain, the sounds began again: the silky glide of fabrics being removed, the click of zippers opening, her satisfied sigh as she tried on something new. Morgana was meticulous, provocative in every audible movement. He closed his eyes, murmuring a silent prayer to whatever god listened to foolish knights.

“Ready for round two?” came her voice, now a husky whisper, laden with malice.

He opened his eyes in time to see the curtain open again—not all the way, but enough for her to emerge as a hellish vision of temptation. This time, the lingerie was red as fresh blood, a liquid ruby ​​woven into flaming lace that contrasted fiercely with her pale skin and dark hair. The bodice was a work of pure audacity: a checkerboard of crisscrossing straps that barely contained her ample breasts, with strategically placed openings at the nipples—perfect circles of absent lace that left the pink, erect tips almost exposed, projecting temptingly outwards, hardened by the fresh air and his hungry gaze. He could see almost everything: the subtle pink areola encircling the stiff peaks, begging for a touch.

Below, her panties were a brazen provocation—a tiny red lace thong with a daring central opening, a vertical slit that exposed the swollen, shaved lips of her pussy, moist and glistening under the soft light of the fitting room, her swollen pink clitoris peeking through the slit like an explicit invitation.

The red garter belt matched perfectly, stretching from her thighs to her fishnet stockings, framing the view like a devilish frame. Her golden eyes shone even more intensely against the red, wild and hungry, her black hair falling in unruly waves over her bare shoulders.

Morgana turned slowly, displaying herself shamelessly: her arched back revealed straps that barely covered her round buttocks, and the slit in her panties blinked with each movement, revealing the wet glow of her arousal. She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing.

Damon gasped, his eyes fixed on the openings—on the almost exposed nipples, on the cleavage that promised immediate sin.

“Morgana… you’re killing me,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and broken, his hands clenched on the arms of the armchair to keep from surrendering right there. His erection throbbed painfully in his trousers, a damp stain forming on the fabric.

She laughed—a low, guttural sound, full of triumph and raw desire.

“Good. Because I’ve barely begun.” Her golden eyes locked on his, hypnotic, as she reached out, her long, elegant fingers encircling his wrist firmly. Without hesitation, she pulled him up, dragging him into the cramped fitting room, the curtain falling behind them like a final barrier against the outside world.

“Do I need to give you any more hints?” she teased, pressing her body against his, her nearly bare breasts brushing against his chest through his shirt.

Before he could answer, she guided his large, calloused hand down, sliding it over the red lace to the open slit of her panties.

His fingers found her pussy—hot, soaked, the swollen lips parting at the touch like hungry petals. She moaned softly as she felt his fingers brush against her exposed clitoris, pushing her hips against his palm, forcing him to feel the viscous honey that flowed from her.

“Fuck, Morgana…,” Damon groaned, his self-control dissolving like smoke. His fingers instinctively plunged in, sliding into the tight, wet entrance, feeling the inner walls throb around him. She was a living hell—tight, scalding, contracting around his invasion as if she wanted him whole.

She arched her back, her dark hair whipping through the air, her golden eyes half-closed in ecstasy.

“That… keeps playing,” she ordered, breathless, as her free hand slid down to his belt, opening it with predatory urgency. The fitting room smelled of imminent sex, and Damon knew, in that instant, there was no turning back. To hell with Elizabeth—he was lost in her.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep