Page 64 of Hollowed

It was reverent.

He laid me back against the cold altar. Not the stone. Not the place we fucked. The real one. The high one. The one no one had dared climb since the Order left it to rot.

He laid me there like I was worthy of being sacrificed.

And then he undressed me again.

Not with urgency.

With awe.

He spread my legs and knelt between them. Bent his head and pressed his mouth to the inside of my thigh.

“Tell me,” he said.

“What?” I breathed.

“Tell me who I am to you.”

I shivered.

“You’re not my god,” I said.

“No.”

“You’re not my savior.”

“No.”

“You’re my altar.”

He groaned. Bent lower. Licked me slow, like he wanted to swallow the truth of it. His mouth moved over my opening with steady reverence, tongue circling my clit until I shook. Until I gasped his name without shame.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t speak.

He just devoured.

And when he fucked me again, it wasn’t to break me.

It was to worship.

And I let him.

Because I knew now.

He wasn’t here to erase me.

He was here to remember me.

To write my name in every breath he had left.

And I was already doing the same.

He bound my wrists with ribbon.

Not rope. Not chain. Not the stained silk they used to correct girls in the cloistered halls of the convent. This was soft. Pale. Unassuming. Like something meant to adorn rather than contain. But it held.

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