Page 90 of Veil of Ashes

Wet. Ready. Already there.

He grins against my skin.

“Always,” he says.

He sinks two fingers into me, slow and steady.

My hands brace on his shoulders.

My hips rock forward, chasing it, grounding myself in the ache, the stretch, the spiral of pleasure climbing fast and sure through my spine.

He moves just right—curling, pressing, his thumb teasing that spot that makes my thighs shake.

I moan against his mouth.

He swallows the sound like a promise.

My hands find his belt. I tug. He groans.

We make quick work of the rest.

He lifts me—just enough—and my back slides higher against the wall, brick scraping my shoulder blades, thighs locking around his waist.

He pushes into me in one slow thrust.

And everything else disappears.

It’s not frantic.

Not rushed.

It’s steady.

Certain.

Each stroke is deep, every grind of his hips drawing out more heat, more gasps, more whispered words that don’t need to make sense.

My hands grip his shoulders, then his hair, then his face.

His mouth is everywhere—jaw, neck, my lips, my breast.

We move like this is the only place we’ve ever belonged.

Like this is the first time and the hundredth.

When I come, it hits like heat through cracked stone—slow, then sudden, and full of light.

I bury my face in his shoulder, bite down, muffling the cry.

He follows a moment later, hips stuttering, breath breaking across my skin.

We don’t speak.

Not for a while.

Just hold.

Just breathe.

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