Page 60 of Veil of Dust

He strips off his shirt and drops it on the floor, damp fabric crumpling. His jeans follow, leaving him bare, exposed, his vulnerability a spark to my hunger. He moves like he’s faced judgment before, but never mine, never this raw.

He lies back, stretching out on the sheets, body taut, waiting for my will to shape him.

I walk to him, the ties cool in my hand. I pull his arms above his head and secure his wrists to the headboard. The silk slides over his skin like a whisper, smooth but merciless. They tighten without biting, pinning him exactly where I want him.

He watches me the whole time, eyes locked on mine, dark, unblinking, drinking in my intent.

Chest rising. Not fast.

Just enough to know he’s not sure what I’ll do next, to know he’s mine to unravel.

I climb on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, hovering just above, close enough for him to feel my heat but not my touch. The bed creaks faintly, a soft protest under our weight.

“My turn,” I say, voice low, a velvet blade slicing through.

He doesn’t resist.

That’s the point.

I don’t want surrender. I want control, absolute, sadistic, a leash on the man who broke me and dared to beg forgiveness.

“You wanted to be mine?” I ask, leaning close, my breath grazing his face, warm and taunting. “Then stay where I put you.”

He nods, eyes open, no shame, just raw, desperate need.

Just waiting, offering himself to my cruelty.

I reach between us, take his cock in my hand, fingers wrapping slow, deliberate, stroking with a rhythm that builds him up, tight and pulsing. His heat sears my palm, his hardness a plea I control.

He gasps, a sharp, broken sound, body tensing, hips twitching under me.

I stroke faster, firm, relentless, watching his face, his eyes flutter, his breath hitch as he nears the edge, so close I can feel it in his tightening muscles. Then I stop, fingers stilling, leaving him throbbing, stranded.

He groans, low, tortured, wrists straining against the silk, desperate for more.

I lean down, my lips brushing his ear, whispering, “Not yet.” My voice is a lash, soft but cruel, tightening his torment.

I shift, straddling his shaft, my thighs pressing close, sliding slow, dry humping him without penetration, my heat grazing him, teasing with pressure but no release. His groansdeepen, raw, pleading, as I grind just enough to drive him wild, then pull back.

“You don’t get to speak,” I say, voice sharp, cutting through his ragged breaths.

He doesn’t. His lips part, a silent cry trapped, obeying even as his body begs.

I take him in my mouth, slow, deliberate, my tongue tracing every inch, sucking just enough to pull him back to the brink. His thighs tremble, his breath a strangled gasp, and I stop again, pulling away, leaving him aching, untouched.

“Please,” he whispers, breaking my rule, voice raw, shaking, a plea that sets my own pulse racing, heat pooling low, sharp and cruel.

I pause, watching him writhe, my own need clawing at me, a mirror to his torment. I’m punishing him, but I’m punishing myself, denying us both what we crave.

“No,” I say, cold, final, even as my body screams to give in, to take what I’m withholding.

I stroke him again, slower, my nails grazing his chest, leaving red trails. I whisper commands, “Stay still,” my breath hot against his neck, my thigh brushing his hip, close but never enough. His body strains, begging, breaking, and I revel in it, even as it tears me apart, even as I torture myself with what I won’t allow.

Every touch is mine, every shudder, every swallowed plea, a kingdom I rule with vicious precision.

He’s beautiful like this. Not because he’s mine, not because he’s broken.

Because for once, he’s not in control. Because the pain is ours, but the power is mine alone.

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