Page 73 of Hollowed

Not to tease.

To remember.

He groaned. His fingers twisted into the robe beneath him. His thighs tensed. But he didn’t guide me. Didn’t thrust.

He let me choose how to worship.

When I climbed back up his body, I didn’t ask.

I sank down on his cock like it was the only answer left in the world.

He gasped.

“Let me,” I whispered.

His eyes locked on mine.

And he let me fuck him.

I rode him until his head fell back, until his voice broke open, until the walls of the chapel could no longer hold the sound of him saying my name.

And when he came, he held me like he didn’t know what to do with the tenderness.

And I kept him there.

Because he needed to learn.

That surrender didn’t mean weakness.

It meant want.

And I wanted him more than I wanted breath.

Because he was not my god.

He was my altar.

And tonight, I was the offering.

I didn’t tell him where I was going.

I didn’t have to. He watched me cross the chapel like a prayer he didn’t dare interrupt. I wasn’t quiet. I wasn’t slow. I didn’t perform for him. I just walked.

Naked under the robe, my skin still wore the marks of him—teeth, bruise, sweat-dried salt. The ache in my thighs was dull now, threaded through with memory. Not pain. Not need. Presence.

I passed the altar.

The basin.

The stone that had once held me like a punishment.

And I went to the far wall.

There, etched into the stone, were names. Dozens. Hundreds. Some so old the letters had faded into dust. Others deeper, darker. Some scratched out. Some underlined.

A ledger carved not on pages.

On walls.

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