Wren’s POV

He materializes like fog becoming flesh.

Translucent at first. Then clearer. Then real enough that I can see the details. My breath hitches because the man taking shape between my thighs is the handome man in the portrait hanging in my hallway downstairs.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw. A mouth that looks like it was made for saying filthy things in a century that didn't allow them. And cold, dark eyes that burn with something raw and desperate.

"You're beautiful," I whisper, reaching up and touching his face. My fingers find a jaw, and he closes his eyes at my touch like a man who hasn't been touched in...