Page 61 of Veil of Dust

Here.

Now.

Me.

The candles flicker, jazz wails, and I hold him on the edge, owning him, breaking him, breaking myself, until power and pain are one, and I’m as lost in the torment as he is.

The heat crests.

It hits hard, low in my gut, a molten wave that curls through me, tightening every muscle. My breath stutters, catching in my throat as I straddle him, my thighs pressed tight against his hips. My body moves through it on instinct, riding him slow, deep, each roll of my hips drawing a low groan from his lips. But it’s not release. It’s not satisfaction.

It’s too sharp, too raw, a blade of want and pain I can’t name, cutting deeper with every motion.

My hands shake, fingers digging into his chest, nails leaving faint crescents in his skin.

I press them harder, anchoring myself, still riding the last wave of his heat inside me, then stop, my breath hitching, my body trembling on the edge of something I can’t control.

Everything inside me cracks, a fracture that lets the truth spill out, messy and unyielding.

I lean forward, reach above his head, my hair brushing his face, a dark curtain scented with sweat and sandalwood.

My fingers find the knots, fumbling for a moment, slick with the heat of us. The silk ties loosen under my touch, slipping free from the headboard.

I untie him.

His arms fall gently to his sides, heavy but still, like he’s waiting for my permission to move. His eyes lock on mine, dark, searching, filled with a hunger that mirrors my own.

I sit back on my heels, my thighs still framing him, my breathunsteady.

Tears hit his shoulder before I realize I’m crying, hot and silent, trailing down my cheeks.

Not soft.

Not loud.

Just steady, a release I didn’t choose but can’t stop, marking him with my pain.

I don’t wipe them away. Let them fall, let him see what this costs me.

He reaches up slowly. His fingers skim my cheek, just once, a touch so gentle it aches, tracing the path of a tear before his hand falls away.

“Vespera—” His voice is rough, pleading, breaking the silence.

“Don’t speak,” I say, voice raw, scraped bare by tears and want, a command softer than before but no less firm.

He doesn’t.

He pulls me down instead. Arms wrap around my back, strong, steady, a hand pressing at my spine, guiding me to his chest.

This time, he holds me.

Not hard. Not desperate.

Just there, his heartbeat thudding against mine, grounding me in the chaos of us.

I shift, my hands finding his shoulders, urging him to move with me. “Touch me,” I whisper, voice low, a need I can’t hide.

His hands slide up, calluses rough against my skin, finding my breasts, fingers circling my nipples, teasing them to tight peaks. A jolt shoots through me, sharp and electric, my breath catching as I arch into his touch.

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