Page 74 of Hollowed

I didn’t look for mine.

I didn’t look for hers.

I didn’t touch the names.

I touched the space between them.

The empty stone.

And I pressed my palm flat.

And I moaned his name.

Low. Slow. Thick with the tremble that started at the base of my spine and coiled through me like reverence.

Not loud enough to echo.

But enough to feel it leave me.

Enough to feel it stay.

I sank to my knees.

I touched myself.

One hand between my legs, the other still pressed to the wall like an invocation. My fingers moved slow. Not to come.To remember.

The way he fucked me. The way he touched me when he didn’t mean to. The way his voice faltered when he called me his like the word was too sacred to hold.

I moved in rhythm with the memory of him.

With the rhythm he carved into me with his hips. With his vow. With the stillness he left behind.

I didn’t close my eyes.

Because I knew he was watching.

I felt his gaze burn across my spine, down my arms, over the stretch of my thighs. I knew he wouldn’t interrupt.

Because this was worship.

And he understood it now.

When I came, I said nothing.

Only his name.

And when I opened my eyes, he was there.

Across the chapel.

Kneeling.

Head bowed.

Not like a man in prayer.

Like a man undone.

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