Page 62 of Veil of Dust

I start riding him again, slower now, deliberate, my hips rocking in a rhythm that builds us both higher. His fingers pinch lightly, rolling my nipples, sending sparks down my spine. One hand drifts lower, slipping between us, finding my clit, stroking in time with my movements, firm, knowing, unraveling me stroke by stroke.

My moans spill free, raw, unfiltered, mingling with his low groans as I grind down, taking him deeper, the slick heat of us a fire that consumes. His touch drives me wild, each brush of his fingers a match struck against my nerves, but I’m still in control, still setting the pace, claiming every shudder, every gasp.

The heat builds, unbearable, a pressure that threatens to break us both. I lean back, my hands gripping his thighs, riding harder, faster, my body trembling with the edge we’re chasing. His fingers stay with me, relentless, circling my clit, pinching my nipples, his eyes never leaving mine, dark with a need that matches my own.

“More,” I gasp, and he obeys, his hands roaming, claiming, driving me higher. But I feel the shift, the need to lose myself, to let go of the reins. I grab his wrists, pulling his hands away, and slide off him, my breath ragged, my body screaming for more.

“Switch,” I say, voice hoarse, urgent, and he moves with me, fluid, hungry. I push him onto his back, but he rolls us,pinning me beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure. His hands find my hips, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around him, urging him closer, needing him now.

He thrusts into me, hard, deep, a rhythm that’s wild, unhinged, each stroke a claim, a promise. My nails rake down his back, leaving red trails, urging him faster, deeper, our bodies slick with sweat, crashing together like the storm we’ve outlasted. I arch into him, meeting every thrust, my moans loud, desperate, filling the room as he drives me toward the edge.

His hand slips between us again, fingers finding my clit, rubbing fast, relentless, sending me spiraling. “Vespera,” he groans, my name a prayer, a plea, as he thrusts harder, his own control fraying. I wrap my body around him, pulling him deeper, my body trembling, teetering on the brink.

The candles spit and dim, their light flickering across his face, illuminating the raw need in his eyes. The jazz fades into the needle spinning on dead wax, leaving only our breaths, our sounds, the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed under our frenzy.

We flip again, my strength surging, and I’m straddling him once more, taking him in deep, riding with abandon, my hands braced on his chest, his fingers digging into my hips, guiding, urging. Every thrust is a battle, a dance, a surrender to something bigger than us, something that binds even as it breaks.

My climax hits first, a wave that crashes, shattering me, my cries sharp, echoing as I shudder around him, pulling him with me. He follows, a low groan tearing from his throat, his body tensing, spilling inside me, our rhythms syncing in that final, wild moment.

We collapse, tangled in sheets and sweat, our skin cooling in patches where the night presses close, slick and spent. My breath slows, ragged, my heart pounding against his, a shared pulse that lingers.

I keep my hand closed around the silk ties, forgotten on the bed beside us.

Not for restraint.

Not for memory.

Just because I don’t know what to do with it yet, with the weight of what we’ve done, what we are.

I took control.

I took his body, claimed every inch, every sound, every shudder.

But trust?

That’s still a ghost, flickering at the edges, uncertain if it wants to stay.

The room settles, candlelight fading, shadows softening.

His arm rests across my waist, not possessive, just there, a tether I’m not ready to cut.

I lie still, my body sated but my heart uneasy, caught between the fire we’ve burned through and the ashes left behind. He’s here, with me, but Leon’s shadow lingers, the Elder’s betrayal a scar we can’t erase.

The needle spins on, a soft scratch in the quiet, and I wonder if this, us, is enough to hold against what’s coming, or if we’ve just lit a fuse we can’t outrun.

Chapter 14 – Tiziano

The machete in my hand drips red.

Still warm, the blood clings to the blade, heavy, glistening in the dim light filtering through the canopy. It’s fresh, a mark of the man I left face-down in the reeds, his arrogance silenced forever.

I continue moving. My boots carve through the muck, deliberate, steady, each step a vow to finish what I’ve started.

The swamp breathes around me. Loud, alive, a chorus of croaking frogs, whining insects, and snapping branches that never settles. Every sound is too close, clawing at my nerves, demanding attention. Every movement in the dark could be teeth, gator or man, waiting to strike.

I track them through what they leave behind, boot prints pressed deep in the mud, cigarette butts crushed into roots, piss staining the reeds with their careless scent. Alfeo’s men aren’t subtle. They don’t think they have to be, swaggering through the bayou like it’s theirs to claim.

They came out here thinking I wouldn’t follow.

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