Page 45 of Hollowed

And whispered,

“Then let me teach you.”

He stilled.

Something in him faltered.

And I saw it.

The fear.

Not of me.

Of softness.

Because it didn’t have rules. Because it didn’t come with vows. Because it wasn’t something he could fuck or bleed or worship into obedience.

But he nodded.

And when he kissed me, it was different.

Not less.

Just slower.

He undressed me with hands that didn’t tremble but hovered—like every part of me was still his altar.

He laid me down and spread my thighs without force. Without ritual.

Just want.

His mouth moved down my chest, over my stomach. He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

When his tongue found my slit, I cried out.

Not because it was rough.

Because it was worship.

He licked me slow. Deep. Like he was memorizing me.

Like I was the last sacred thing he would ever be allowed to taste.

His tongue fucked me while his hands held my hips still, and I sobbed into the stone. My thighs shook. My back arched. And when I came, it wasn’t shattering.

It was surrender.

He kissed the inside of my thigh and crawled up my body.

He didn’t speak.

He slid his cock inside me in one long, slow thrust.

And I cried again.

Because it didn’t hurt.

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