Page 39 of Veil of Ashes

I lean forward, my breasts brushing his chest, our sweat mingling. He thrusts deeper, the wet slap of his balls against my ass a filthy, intoxicating rhythm. My pussy grips him, dripping, coating us both as the bed creaks beneath us.

In a sudden move, he flips me onto my back, pinning me beneath him. My legs fall open, hooking around his hips, pulling him closer. He drives into me, his cock plunging deep, stretching me with every stroke. The angle shifts, and I gasp, the pleasure sharper, more intense.

“Harder,” I beg, my voice raw, nails raking down his back. He growls, complying, his thrusts relentless, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room. I meet him, hips rising, greedy for every inch, every sensation.

His hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit. He rubs in quick, rough circles, slick with my wetness. The pressure builds, heat coiling tight in my core. I scream, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and unrestrained.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasps, his voice strained, his cock slamming into me with a rhythm that feels like it could break me apart. My pussy clenches, milking him, pulling him deeper as my body trembles on the edge.

I grab his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, urging him on. He grunts, sweat dripping from his brow, his thrusts growing wilder. My breasts bounce with each hit, nipples aching, desperate for his touch.

He leans down, capturing one in his mouth, sucking hard. His teeth graze, his tongue flicking fast, wet and messy. I moan, the pleasure spiking, my pussy throbbing around his cock. He switches to the other, biting just enough to make me thrash beneath him.

“More,” I gasp, my voice breaking. He pulls out slowly, teasing, then slams back in, his balls slapping loud against my soaked skin. My pussy gushes, slick and hot, coating him as the tension builds.

He shifts, lifting my legs over his shoulders. The new angle sends his cock deeper, scraping against my walls in a way that makes my vision blur. I cry out, hands clawing the sheets, lost in the overwhelming rush.

“Fuck me,” I pant, my eyes rolling back. He pounds harder, relentless, the wet rhythm of his balls against me driving me higher. My pussy squeezes him, tight and dripping, every nerve alight with need.

His fingers return to my clit, rubbing fast, pinching lightly. The heat explodes, my body shaking as the orgasm builds, sharp and blinding. My juices flood, soaking his hand, his cock, the sheets beneath us.

He groans, a deep, guttural sound, his thrusts growing erratic. “Sylvara,” he says, my name a broken rasp on his lips. His balls tighten against me, his cock pulsing hard inside, ready to break.

I rock up, meeting him, my clit grinding against his fingers. The pleasure crests, unbearable, and I shatter, screaming his name as the orgasm rips through me. My pussy spasms, gushing wet, drenching us both as wave after wave crashes over me.

He follows, a low growl tearing from his throat as his cock jerks, spilling hot cum inside me. It floods my pussy, mixing with my juices, dripping out around him. He collapses, chest heaving, sweat slick on his skin, his weight a comforting anchor above me.

I pant beneath him, legs trembling, my pussy still twitching with aftershocks. He rolls to the side, pulling me into his arms. My thigh drapes over his, sticky with sweat and cum, our bodies pressed close.

His arm curls around me, holding me tight. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my ear. The room is thick with our scent—sweat, sex, the faint tang of ink from his tattoos.

I trace a scar on his ribs, my fingers slow, lingering. This wasn’t supposed to happen, wasn’t part of any plan, but it’s real now, undeniable. His touch has marked me, his presence carved into my skin, my soul.

He brushes my hair back, his lips grazing my forehead. The vulnerability between us is raw, a fragile thread binding us in the aftermath. We’re tangled, exposed, changed in ways I can’t yet name.

The city hums outside, a distant reminder of the world waiting to pull us apart. Can we hold onto this, this fragile, burning thing we’ve made? Or will it slip through our fingers, lost to the chaos closing in?

I don’t know. But for now, I cling to him, to the warmth of his skin, to the steady rhythm of his breath. For now, it’s enough.

Chapter 13 – Kieran

I step into the underground vault beneath the High Royale Casino, boots echoing on polished stone. Two guards flank the steel door, rifles slung across their chests, faces blank. They don’t move as I pass, but their presence presses against me.

Inside, the room drips with wealth—gilded walls gleam under soft lights, velvet chairs line a long poker table, and the chill of air-conditioning bites my skin. Above, the Strip bakes under a blazing sun, but down here, it’s a golden tomb.

Dante Veyra sits at the table’s head, a deck of antique cards fanned out in front of him like he’s preaching. His suit is crisp, burgundy tie knotted tight, gray hair slicked back. His eyes lift to mine, sharp and unyielding.

Gia lounges off to the side, legs crossed, a champagne flute dangling from her fingers. Her red dress hugs her frame, and her eyes sparkle with something dangerous—knowledge she’s itching to use.

I set the forged ledger on the green felt, a thick packet sealed tight. It’s clean, flawless, every detail Sylvara carved into it precise. My hand stays steady, but my gut twists—for her.

Dante reaches for it, fingers brushing the cover. He flips it open, pages rustling as he scans the lines. His voice cuts through the quiet, reading slow. “Veritas Holdings. Croce di Nero. Bellwether Safe.”

Each name drops like a stone, accounts tied to men who bleed gold and venom. He traces a finger down the columns, numbers aligning perfect. I stand there, watching, pulse steady but loud in my ears.

He looks up, eyes narrowing. A smile curves his lips, thin and cold.

“If this is fake, your girl dies first. Then you.”

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