Page 51 of Whispers of Ruin

Before I can even finish, Xan spins me around to face him, my back now shielding me from Julian’s pitiful sobs. In one swift motion, he strips off my shirt and bra, exposing me to the candlelit air. The tension in the room thickens as his hands roam my body with purpose. There is an edge to his touch, almost as if he is holding back, yet I can feel the primal need coursing through him. He leans in closer, and I brace myself for what’s next.

Instead of diving into the depths of his hunger, he pauses, a flicker in his gaze. With a swift motion, he lifts his mask—just enough to expose his mouth.

His lips graze my stomach gently. The rest of his face stays hidden, still that moment of intimacy feels louder than everything else, more significant than I ever expected. The sensation of his mouth on my skin makes my thighs shake as if they were getting their own earthquake.

His tongue ravages my breast, kissing, biting, worshiping—he is starving and I am the only thing that can feed him.

Xan’s teeth scrape across my breast as he drags his mouth lower, nipping, tasting, branding every inch he claims. His hands slide up my ribs, fingers spread wide, trying to memorize the shape of me by touch alone. I arch into him, my breath ragged, my skin burning with the need to be devoured.

“I could carve you into memory,” he growls against my flesh, voice gravel and sin. “Every breath you take, every sound you make—it belongs to me now.”

The chair creaks again. A whine. Julian’s presence, so deplorable, so weak, only heightens the charge in the room. I realize that his despair, that miserable noise of justice finallyserved, only fuels the ache coiling in me, intensifying the craving I feel for Xan.

I cannot tear my eyes from his mouth—now fully revealed for the first time, far more dangerous than I ever imagined. His lips are thick, sculpted, and unapologetically dominant. They were crafted to command, consume and move with a quiet confidence that makes me more excited than ever. My own lips part of their own accord, trembling in invitation, desperate to be met. When his tongue touches my skin—it is fire meeting silk. My nerves ignite in cascading waves, my body hyperaware, honoring the sensation.

Xan’s hand glides along my thigh, unhurried. He moves to my entrance with a devotion that borders on obsession—committing the texture, the warmth, the very essence of me. His fingers press into the deep tender of my vagina, as if imprinting his presence beneath the surface of my body was not enough. Each inch of my pussy he claims sends an electrifying thrill unraveling into my core, a whisper that deepens with every breath.

“I noticed your lips parting,” he murmurs, his voice a low velvet drawl that drips with suggestion. “Figured you might search for something to savor.”

He wastes no time, bringing his fingers to my mouth—slick with the heat of what he has taken from me, glistening with that indecent, creamy flavor of my surrender. He brushes them over my lower lip first, teasing, observing with sharp eyes as I open wider, soft and wanting. When he finally pushes them in, the taste hits like a jolt—natural, intimate, undeniably mine. He devours me with eyes ablaze, torn between sacred awe and aching desire.

“What you are tasting Mira, is your own liberation. This is the flavor of control, little fox—the kind that only those who dare to surrender can truly understand.”

I never thought I could feel this strong in a moment of pure domination. I used to believe that women who submitted were weak, fragile, stripped of any artifice. Yet standing beside the right dominant, I realize how wrong I was.

With Julian, I felt small, suffocated by his attempts to control me. His dominance was a false mask, a lame attempt to keep me beneath him, but it only made me feel incapable, a shadow of myself.

Now, with Xan, I see the difference. It is not about being weak; it is about the strength that rises when you are truly seen, when you are pushed to your limits not by someone’s insecurity, but by their power. Julian’s dominance only crushed me. This… this makes me whole.Hemakes me whole.

As I savor every lingering trace on his finger, I thrust my fingers deep into my core; the sensation inundating. Xan lets out a satisfied sigh, his breath mingling with the involuntary cry that I let escape. It is as though time halts, the room hums with an electric tension, as euphoria blends with a creeping sense of doom.

“I deemed it necessary for you to experience it—so that you, too, could fully taste the force of my transformation,” I whisper as my fingers slip on his tongue, the warmth of my inside wrapping around it.

“Mira, by doing this, you are unlocking a ferocity within me I’m uncertain your body is prepared to withstand.”

I chuckle softly, the corners of my lips curling mischievously.

“Xan Hayes, are you actually asking for permission?”

His laughter bursts out, richer than mine, as he responds with a grin.

“As if I’d ever be that foolish.”

He lifts me effortlessly, his grip tightening around my waist as he pulls my legs apart, spreading them wide with a feral intensity. My body sinks into his as he moves us towards the bed, the roughness of his touch igniting every nerve.

With one swift motion, he presses me down into the soft sheets, his chest against mine grounding me while his hands roam, owning every part of me. My legs, now sprawled on either side, feel the heat of his hands as he positions me with ruthless force, ordering me to feel the full intensity of his desire.

“But before I allow you to taste the overwhelming power of what I carry, I must finish the feast you so graciously invited me to enjoy.”

With those words, he buries his face between my thighs—so lush, so drenched in sweetness it seems to bloom beneath his touch. His tongue moves with precision and intent through my bottom lips, tracing every ridge and curve, learning a sacred book written in flavor and sensation, determined to leave no part of the offering untouched.

Each stroke of his tongue sends tiny tremors straight to my chest. He gripped my thighs with a possessive steadiness—anchoring me, keeping me grounded in the intensity of it all. My spine arches involuntarily, clutching the sheets—the only thingtethering me to reality—as each wave of sensation threatens to drag me deeper into the abyss.

He devours every part of me, owning every note with meticulous adoration, a secret promise in every languid motion that he will not stop until I am trembling, undone, and carved open entirely by pleasure. He feasts on me with the kind of focus that borders on violence, trying to consume the forbidden fruit itself.

My body bucks beneath him while his grip only tightens, fingers bruising into my thighs to keep me exactly where he wants me—spread, exposed, helpless to the devotion he offers with his mouth. My vision blurs, my thoughts scatter—he is unmaking me, piece by piece.

When I dare to look down, his eyes catch mine—wild, ravenous, born to break me apart and make me beg for it. And I do. Not with words, but with the desperate way my hips rise to meet his mouth again and again. His tongue moved in slow, hypnotic circles, dragging pleasure from the deepest corners of me, coaxing my body to tremble beneath the weight of his focus.

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