Page 123 of Veil of Dust

She leans in slowly, her lips brushing my cheek first. Not rushed. Just close. Her breath warm at the corner of my mouth, like a question she already knows the answer to.

My body responds, but not in desperation. In trust. In presence.

I want her.

But more than that, I want her to lead.

She reaches for me again, fingertips brushing my chest. My scars. She doesn’t avoid them. Doesn’t hesitate.

She moves over each one like a story she’s already read. Like they matter, but they don’t define me.

I look up at her. Eyes open now. Her gaze meets mine.

And I know she sees everything.

There’s no shame here.

No fear.

Just love.

Her touch is slow. She’s not trying to tease. She’s not building toward anything but connection. This isn’t performance. It’s intention.

It’s real.

The candlelight flickers on her skin, casting soft gold along her collarbones, catching the silk where it drapes. Her figure is outlined in warmth, in safety, in everything I’ve never let myself believe I could have.

But I do.

She’s here.

And I’m hers.

The room is quiet, but not silent. It breathes with us. The faint scent of jasmine and wood smoke hangs in the room—reminders of comfort, of nights survived, of peace earned.

She touches the edge of the silk again, smoothing it gently. Like she’s checking—not for tightness, but for connection.

I stay rooted to the ground.

She sees me.

All of me.

And she stays.

I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of safety.

The silk sways slightly in the breeze. The light dances. The rest of the world can wait.

Her fingers return to my shoulders. This time, they press down a little more. Not pushing. Just guiding. Grounding me again.

I lean into the touch.

She’s not asking anything of me right now.

Just letting me be here. With her.

My body, still. My heart, full.

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