Page 30 of Hollowed

Because I wanted more.

He fucked me then.

Not fast. Not gentle.

Savage.

Like he had waited to break.

His hands slid up my back. One found the back of my neck and pressed. The other gripped my hip so hard I knew it would bruise.

And I wanted it.

His teeth sank into my shoulder. Deep. I screamed his name. He growled into my skin, words I didn’t understand.

Scripture.

Not spoken.

Carved.

He fucked me until I forgot what stillness was.

Until the world was only thrust and breath and the way his body made mine forget every hand that had touched it before.

He was snarling by the time I came. A ragged sound. Like possession.

Like worship.

I shattered.

And he followed.

He stayed inside me. Chest pressed to my back. Breath at my ear.

“You’re not just mine,” he whispered.

“You’re the reason I remember I’m alive.”

And I believed him.

He didn’t pull out.

Not for a long time.

He stayed, cock still buried inside me, hand splayed across the back of my neck like he couldn’t bear to let me forget where I belonged. His breath came in soft bursts against my spine, slower now, calmer—but not gentle. There was no gentleness in him. Only purpose. Only pressure.

And something else.

Ache.

I didn’t expect it. I’d felt his hunger before, his control, his brutal reverence—but this was different. This wasn’t about ownership. This was about need.

Not mine.

His.

I could feel it in the way his fingers twitched against my skin, in the way his hips stayed pressed against mine long after the last tremor of his climax had passed. It wasn’t about the pleasure.

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