Page 126 of Unclench Me Softly

And then, when I finally start to come back to myself, still raw, still slick, still split wide open, he presses his mouth to my ear and whispers filth like it’s a promise he plans to keep for the rest of my life.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, low and rough, his hands stroking slowly down my spine. “Wrecked and soft and fucked so full of me you can’t even think straight.”

He nuzzles against my temple, kisses the corner of my mouth, catches the whimper I can’t hold back.

“Gonna make you forget your own name,” he breathes, each word sinking into my skin like holy oil, “Until you’re nothing but moans and mantras.”

And gods, I want it. I want all of it.

I want every filthy word he’s promising written across my bones.

But then he shifts, gentler, sweeter, and tilts my chin up until he can see my face, until he can brush his thumb across my cheek like he’s memorizing the way I look when I’m loved like this.

He kisses me once, slow and deep and devastating, and when he pulls back, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You were made for this,” he says, like it’s a sacred truth, like it’s a vow. “You were made for worship.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to.

Because I’m already curling into him, heart-first, letting him gather me up like I’m precious, letting him carry me down into the sweetest, safest oblivion I’ve ever known.

He doesn’t let go, even when my body goes boneless against him, even when my breathing slows into something soft and shallow and half-dreamed.

He just shifts us, tugging the covers up with one hand, wrapping me tighter to his chest with the other, his fingers lazily stroking through my hair like he’s tracing sacred symbols into my scalp.

I feel him kiss the top of my head, feel the rumble of his voice when he speaks, not filthy this time, not a command, just a truth, easy and undeniable. “You’re not getting rid of me, you know,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with the kind of promise that doesn’t need to be shouted to be believed.

And maybe I should say something clever. Maybe I should laugh or tease or deflect like I usually do when someone sees too much.

But I don’t. I just press my face closer to his chest, let myself breathe him in, let myself believe, just for now, that maybe some things are meant to be this easy.

This sacred. This ruinously, ridiculously good.

“You rest,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re worshipped. You’re… Blissed.”

And that’s the moment I fall in love with him a little.

Or a lot. I don’t know.

My brain is glitter.

Excerpt from the Solstice Hollow Sacred Circle Newsletter

Delivered monthly or during astrological emergencies

Solstice Hollow Dispatch: Volume 27 – Let the Seed Settle Before You Text Him Again™

Dear divine beings of rewilded masculinity and curious surrender,

Welcome to another soul-expanding issue of the Solstice Hollow Sacred Circle Newsletter™, where we ask important questions like:

“Is it spiritual to want to be railed in the steam dome?”

“Can you rage journal in Sharpie?”

“What if your inner cub is horny and emotionally fragile?”

Yes. To all of it.

This month’s sacred theme: Reclaiming the Root.

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