Page 87 of Carved in Ruin

The door to her apartment is quiet when I open it. The air inside smells like her, light, sweet, intoxicating. I close the door silently behind me.

She’s on the bed, curled on her side, her face bathed in the soft glow of the light filtering through the window. God, she’s beautiful.

I step closer. She doesn’t stir. She never does.

Kneeling beside the bed, I let my eyes roam over her face. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, and I wonder what she’s dreaming about. Is it me? Does she think of me even a fraction of how much I think of her?

I reach out to brush a strand of hair from her face. It’s soft, silkier than the one I keep in my box. My thumb grazes her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my touch.

Her lips part slightly and I can’t resist. My fingers trail down, hovering over the curve of her mouth. I could kiss her. I could do so much more. But I don’t.

I sit there, drinking her in, the way her chest rises and falls, the faint sound of her breathing, and the way her hair fans out across the pillow like a halo.

She kicks the blanket off, and her bare leg is out. She seems to only be wearing a pair of panties and a shirt. My dick immediately stands to attention. She could just breathe next to me and I would be ready to take her.

I try, I really do. I try not to look, not to touch, not to go crazy for her… But it doesn’t work. My fingers find themselves dancing on the skin of her calf without my permission. I trace them upwards until they are ghosting over the skin of her inner thighs. Fuck. I can’t stop myself. I pull her panties to the side, staring at my pretty little pussy.

I still haven’t tasted it and that is unacceptable. I want nothing more than for my tongue to explore her cunt. I want to suck on her little pearl of a clit, to tease her opening with the tip of my tongue, to kiss her flesh. But not now, I don’t want mykroshkato wake up and freak out. This is my refuge.

My cock hurts. It wants her so bad. She shivers and I cover her back up. I don’t want my angel cold. Fighting my urges, my darkness, my filthiness, doesn’t work. So like I always do, I embrace it. I don’t need to touch her to make this work.

I take my cock out, looking at her angel-like features while I jerk myself off. How can someone be so perfect? If the devil ever saw her, he’d kiss her and repent. And I have. I repented.

Each stroke is a reminder that I’m not the one in control of her right now, but that’s only temporary. She’ll be back soon enough. When I come, it’ll be for her—for what’s coming, for what I’ll take from her, body and soul. It’s torture. My hand moves with a hunger that I know she’ll never understand. I’m building it, making it last.

I work myself, my grip tightening with every pull. I can almost feel her, her body pressed against mine, her skin hot andsoft beneath my hands. I imagine her, the way she’d react, how her body would arch when I touch her, and I match that rhythm with my own hand, pumping harder, faster.

The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room, but she’s always been a heavy sleeper. She opens her mouth, and gives a small little sigh, like a kitten.

The tension builds to a breaking point, and I feel the heat coil in my gut, desperate to escape. My hand moves faster, rougher, until the inevitable wave crashes over me. I bite down on a groan, my body shuddering as I release into my own hand, the wet warmth spilling over my fingers.

My fingers shake as I slide them up to her pulse points, pressing the sticky warmth into her skin, marking her. I trace the delicate curve of her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse beneath my touch. I smear a little more on the soft skin beneath her ear, the pulse there strong, steady, just like the rhythm I’ll set for her.

I let my fingers trail down to her lips, watching her intently as I smear the last of it across her parted mouth. She won’t be able to forget that I’m with her, even when I’m not there. She’ll taste me every time she touches her lips. Every time she breathes, she’ll remember that I’ve been inside her, marking her, claiming her in ways no one else can.

Her pink tongue peeks out as if she sensed my essence, and she licks her lip, moaning at the taste. That’s my girl. Even in sleep, she knows how her worshipper tastes. I want to brand her. I want her to smell like me all the time. I. Just. Want. Her.

Thirty Seven

The Storm is Coming

Mila

The hum of the oscilloscopes blends with the low whir of the cooling fans, almost making me lose my mind. My hands are sore from adjusting wires and fiddling with equipment, and my eyes burn from staring at the same set of graphs for hours. The project feels like it’s falling apart, and I’m not sure if I’m more scared or resigned at this point.

“Today can go to hell,” Mary snaps. “Straight to hell, no stops, no return ticket.”

Sam snorts, leaning back against the cabinet with a look that screamsdone. “Hell would probably be more organized than this lab.”

“Or at least less judgmental,” Mary mutters, glaring at the blinking error light on the power supply as if it personally insulted her.

I smile weakly, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen. Sam’s right—everything’s a mess. The laser alignment was off, the interferometer kept drifting, and let’s not even talk about the data logger that decided to crash in the middle of our measurements.

“I need a drink,” Sam announces, running a hand through his hair. “A strong one. Maybe two. Just enough to forget this disaster exists for a while.”

I laugh, but it’s shaky. What if I bit off more than I can chew? What if this whole project is beyond me?

Mary grabs a coil of wire and hurls it onto the cart. “I second that. Let’s get out of here before I lose my mind. There’s a pub across the street.”

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