Page 72 of Hollowed

Sitting. Legs stretched out, robes loosened at his waist, hair falling around his face in dark, tangled waves. His hands were braced on either side of him like he didn’t trust his body not to move on its own.

His eyes tracked me before his head turned.

Not like a predator.

Like a man who couldn’t believe he was still being chosen.

I crossed the space between us slowly.

Each step louder than it should have been. Not because the stone echoed. Because he watched each one like a confession.

I didn’t ask.

I straddled him.

The robe fell open around my hips, bare beneath. My knees found the outside of his thighs. My pussy pressed against the hardness he tried not to name.

His hands hovered.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

I reached for the collar of his robe.

Pulled it from his shoulders.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

I laid him down.

Slow. Reverent. The way he had laid me down so many times before. His body stiffened beneath me, not from resistance, but memory. His back arched as my hands moved over his chest.

He didn’t stop me.

Even when I pressed my mouth to the mark above his heart.

Even when I whispered,

“Let me take you.”

He turned his face away.

But he let me pull the robe from his hips.

His cock was hard. Already. Waiting.

I wrapped my hand around it. Felt the pulse beneath my palm.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Breathe,” I said.

He did.

And I took him into my mouth.

Slowly.

The way he’d taken me.

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