Page 40 of Whispers of Ruin

His hand move swiftly, expecting another sharp strike. To my surprise, it slips between my thighs. Heat floods me instantly as his fingers graze my sensitive nerves, trailing with agonizing slowness until they rest against the aching pulse at my core. Thetenderness of his touch is such a stark distinction to the violent strikes that came before, and the sensation is nothing short of intoxicating.

“You’re absolutely drenched, Mira,” he murmurs, his voice a sinful caress. “Think you could come for me?”

His fingers find their place, gliding over my clit with slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just right—enough to make my eyes roll back.

“Xan… it feels so good.”

With Julian, I always ended up reaching for toys, his touch as sensual as a piece of unfinished wood. Nothing like this. Nothing likehim.

“I asked you a question.”

His movements quicken, coaxing pleasure from me so effortlessly it is almost infuriating. He is way too good at this. Too practiced. The realization ignites a brief, ridiculous flicker of jealousy. I know it is absurd, but I cannot help it.

He seizes himself with a firm grip, the hotness of his cock pulsing against his palm, letting it fall in sharp, rhythmic slaps against my ass cheeks. Every strike ignites a fresh wave of sensation, a cruel mix of fire and ecstasy that tightens my throat and steals my breath. My skin, raw and aching, trembles beneath his touch, each impact sending shockwaves through my entire body.

Even the mere brush of air feels excruciating, each live wire alight with overstimulation. A broken moan slips past my lips—part torment, part desperate surrender.

“I fucking asked you a question. I don’t think you’re in any position to ignore me.”

His words slice through the thick, electric tension hanging between us, sharp and unrelenting. There is no room for hesitation, no escape from the dominance in his tone.

Will I surrender? The answer is carved into every aching inch of me. My body trembles with need, my breath shattering into uneven gasps. Yet for some inexplicable reason, I still cannot force the words out. Stubborn pride knots itself around my throat, holding me hostage, even as my lower stomach defies me— pleading, begging for more.

“Make me say it,” I exhale, syllables soaked in challenge.

A dark, knowing chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You won’t have to tell me twice.”

A second later, his fingers penetrate my pussy with devastating precision, tracing slow, tantalizing movements against the most sensitive part of my vagina. A sharp gasp rips through me as pleasure coils tight, winding across my muscles, spreading like liquid fire.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Thoughts refuse to align, let alone an answer. The pressure builds relentlessly, the line between pleasure and torment blurring until they become the same. I grasp at anything—his arms, his shirt, the sheets—desperate for an anchor as he pulls me deeper into oblivion.

“Say it,” he commands, his grip tightening just enough to remind me of exactly where I stand.

“Say that you are going to drench the bed with more than your blood, or I stop.”

A strangled moan spills from my lips, my last shred of defiance crumbling to dust. He has shattered me, stripped me bare in ways I never imagined, reduced me to nothing but sensation and hunger.

“Please Xan, never stop or I’ll die!”

“Well, fucking say it now, before I’m forced to unearth the words buried so deep inside you myself. And though it may sound enticing, I assure you, it will not be.”

Euphoria swells to its peak as his touch deepens, sending waves of burning bliss. I have to say it now—if he stops, I swear I will fall apart from this need ripping me open.

I feel like it’s as if, by yielding to his demand, I tear down the last of my defenses—those fragile barriers that once held the possibility of saving me, of helping me break free from this emotional entrapment. Since Julian, fear consumes me; nothing feels authentic anymore, and everything is tainted by creeping doubt.

I will not remain this fragile forever. That is the lie I repeat, again and again—while stuck in a version of myself that refuses to be anything else. The past winds around me like barbed wire, its claws embedded too deep to simply shake off. Every scar, every betrayal, every whispered lie is a thread woven into the fabric of who I am. I have spent my life guarding myself, wrapping layers around my heart, convincing myself that I could survive alone. That Ihadto.

Still, here I am, hovering at the cusp of a perilous abyss, a boundless, uncharted expanse. Withhim.

Never have I felt so close to the precipice, yet so achingly safe. As if he is both the storm and the shelter. It would be a lie—a coward’s excuse—to hide behind the wounds Julian left when I am the one silently begging Xan to let me in. To lower his mask. To strip away the last layers between us so that we can be whatever we are destined to become.

“Xan, please… never abandon me.”

The words spill out before I can stop them and, instantly, shame tangles itself inside me. I want to snatch them back, pretend they never existed. Although it’s impossible. Because they are the truest things I have ever said. I have been abandoned too many times to count. My father was stolen to my youth by death. My mother let herself be swallowed by her demons, too mentally broken to fight for me. And Julian… Julian had been nothing but an illusion, a cruel deception I mistook for love.

I brace myself for silence, for indifference, for some kind of reprimand. Instead, Xan exhales slowly, his grip shifting. He releases himself; his palm drags up the length of my spine, a single stroke that is both grounding and electrifying.

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