Grey Poupon

The polished brass frog on Elara’s dressing table reflected only the flickering gaslight. Its surface warped the room into a distorted dreamscape. Her reflection stared back, lips parted slightly as she traced a finger along her garter. The silk robe slipped from her shoulder. A tasty morsel, for Satan’s caviar on her collarbone.

Footsteps echoed on cobblestones outside. Silas paused beneath her window, his boot scuffing the sewer grate where he’d caught gutter fish last winter. Rainwater pooled between ancient stones, smelling of wet iron and rotten leaves. He tilted his head, listening to the ragged gasp from Elara’s room above. Bloody hell, he breathed. The sounds of lusting agony.

Inside, Elara’s robe pooled at her ankles like spilled cream. She shuddered, fingertips digging into her thigh as phantom teeth grazed her collarbone—that spot where her skin glistened, slick with sweat beneath the gaslight’s feverish pulse. A moan escaped, low and raw, as she imagined claws dragging down her spine. Every nerve screamed for surrender, listing to the crickets fiddle a requiem in the twilight falling, spitting on the nave.

Silas pressed against the dank wall, eyes wide as the ragged gasps sharpened into choked whimpers. He knew that sound—the jagged edge between terror and ecstasy. His own knuckles whitened against the cobblestones, heart battering his ribs. Rainwater soaked through his threadbare shirt as the scent of bergamot and salt drifted from her window, mingling with the sewer stench. Bloody hell, he’d seen her laugh at aristocrats in the tavern, but this? This was a woman unraveling at the hips.

Inside, Elara’s fingers slid lower, nails scraping her inner thigh. Phantom claws tightened their grip, forcing her spine into an arch that bared her throat to the flickering gaslight. A strangled cry tore loose as heat pooled low in her belly—sharp, demanding. She bit her lip till copper bloomed on her tongue. *Let him devour me,* the thought hissed through her haze. *Let him split me open on this dressing table.* Her reflection blurred into a smear of pale skin and dark hair against the brass frog’s distorted grin.

Then Silas whispered —”Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”

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