#archermoon

The curtains fluttered in the warm ocean breeze.

Wisteria sat curled in the corner of her window seat, heartbeat thudding as she stared into the dark garden below.

Then—

A quiet thud.

Boots landing softly on stone.

She turned.

And there he was.

Archer Moon.

Climbing over the balcony rail like he’d done it a thousand times—barefoot, curls wind-blown, shirt half-buttoned like he’d thrown it on just to feel decent.

He didn’t wait for permission.

He pushed the balcony door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him with a soft click.

His eyes found hers.

Dark. Hungry.

“I’ve been thinking about your taste all day.”

Her breath caught.

“Archer—”

He didn’t let her finish.

He crossed the space in two strides, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her to him like it had been killing him to wait.

Their mouths crashed together—hot, open, desperate.

Wisteria moaned into him, hands sliding up his chest, fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed her like a man trying to carve her into memory.

“You smell like salt and dreams,” he whispered against her lips. “And I’m so fucking gone for you.”

He backed her toward the bed, kissing her again, slower now—like he wanted to taste every breath she’d taken without him.

She tugged him closer, lips parting, heart slamming against her ribs.

“I don’t want to think tonight,” she whispered. “I just want to feel.”

Archer’s grin was crooked. Rough.

“Then let me help you forget.”

And this time, when he kissed her—

It wasn’t just for distraction.

It was for her.

All of her.

Archer’s hands didn’t rush.

He wasn’t fumbling or frantic like last time.

This time, he took his time—like he’d come here with one purpose.

To take her apart, one breath at a time.

Wisteria stood in the center of the room, her silver nightdress clinging to her skin. The balcony door swung gently in the breeze behind him. Her pulse thudded in her throat as Archer stepped forward.

His eyes dragged over her body—slow, reverent, devouring.

“Gods, Wisteria,” he murmured, voice rough. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She shivered.

“Say it,” he demanded softly, stepping closer. “Say you want this.”

Her lips parted. “I want this.”

His mouth twitched, but there was no smile. Just heat. Control.

“No games this time,” Archer said, circling behind her, fingertips grazing her waist. “No rushing. You’re mine tonight. And I’m going to show you exactly what that means.”

She sucked in a breath as his hands slid over her hips, slow and claiming.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered, pressing his mouth to her neck, his voice vibrating against her skin. “The way your body reacts when I touch you?”

She nodded.

“Use your words, princess.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “I feel it.”

He turned her slowly, tilting her chin up with one finger. The look in his eyes made her knees weak—like she was a treasure he’d finally been allowed to take, and he didn’t plan to waste a second.

“You’re not allowed to hide from me tonight,” he murmured. “No walls. No pretending. I want you.”

She blinked, her voice shaking. “What do you want to do to me?”

He growled low in his throat.

“Everything.”

His hands slid up to her shoulders, fingers working the straps of her nightdress. He tugged one down… then the other. The silk slid over her skin and pooled at her feet.

She stood bare before him, chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed—not from shame, but from longing.

And he looked at her.

Like she was art. Like she was fire.

Like he was about to ruin her in the most loving, devastating way possible.

“Get on the bed,” he said, voice firm. “On your back. Hands above your head.”

Her breath hitched, but she obeyed.

When she lay back, heart pounding, Archer stepped out of his boots, peeled off his shirt, and climbed over her—slowly, like a wolf stalking something sacred.

He didn’t touch her yet.

He just hovered.

Let her feel the weight of his stare. The warmth of his body.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. “You’re perfect. You know that?”

She shook her head.

“You are,” he said again. “And tonight, I’m going to show you just how much you deserve.”

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, each breast—slow and deliberate.

Worshipping.

Wisteria arched into him, moaning softly, her fingers curling into the sheets.

“You like this?” he asked, nipping lightly at her hip.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Gods, yes.”

“Then say it again. Say you want to be mine tonight.”

“I want to be yours,” she whispered.

“Louder.”

“I want to be yours.”

He kissed her mouth, deep and firm, finally letting his hand drift between her thighs.

And as she gasped, writhing under his touch, Wisteria knew—

This wasn’t just distraction.

This was what it felt like to be wanted.

To be chosen.

To be claimed—not out of duty, or timing, or guilt.

But because he couldn’t not want her.

And gods, she never wanted it to stop.

Archer takes her—slow and deep

Her breath caught as his fingers moved with devastating care—stroking her softly, confidently, until she was trembling beneath him.

Archer watched her face the entire time, like each gasp was sacred. He kissed her stomach, her thighs, her hip bones—his hands never rough, but never hesitant either. He knew what he was doing.

And gods, he meant it.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmured, dragging his fingers slowly through her heat. “Is this all for me, baby?”

Wisteria whimpered. “Yes.”

He slid one finger inside. Then another. Watching how her mouth fell open, how her hips shifted toward him, desperate for more.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed, kissing her knee, her thigh. “So fucking perfect.”

She moaned his name.

And Archer froze.

Just for a second.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“Archer.”

That did it.

He climbed up her body slowly, cradling her face in one hand, the other bracing himself above her. He kissed her like he wanted to imprint her taste on his soul.

Then, without a word, he lined himself up—and pressed in.

Wisteria arched up, a strangled sound escaping her lips. He filled her, inch by inch, slowly, watching every flicker of expression cross her face.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice shaking. “You feel… gods, baby, you feel like heaven.”

He didn’t thrust.

Not yet.

He just stayed there—deep inside her—letting her adjust, letting her feel it.

Letting her know exactly who she belonged to in this moment.

Her nails gripped his arms.

“Please,” she whispered.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, brushing her hair back. “I’ll give you what you need.”

And then—he moved.

Long, deep strokes. No rush. No frantic pace.

Just presence.

Each thrust was deliberate. Controlled. His mouth was at her ear, his hand entwined with hers, and every breath he took seemed to sync with hers until they were moving as one.

“You deserve this,” he whispered. “You deserve to feel like a fucking goddess.”

She could only moan in response, her body burning with every slow grind, every roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice thick. “I want to see those eyes when I make you come.”

She did.

And when she broke—when her climax hit her like a crashing wave—he watched her unravel, whispering her name like a prayer.

He came right after, buried deep inside her, forehead pressed to hers, groaning like he’d finally found peace.

They lay tangled after, the sheets a mess around them, breath still shallow.

Archer traced slow circles on her shoulder.

“You still thinking?” he asked softly.

Wisteria blinked, dazed. “No. Not even a little.”

He kissed her bare shoulder and pulled her in close.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I plan to make you forget again. And again. And again.”

And Wisteria, for once, didn’t feel confused.

She felt wanted.