Page 76 of The Flesh Remembers
His hand slid lower, fingers ghosting, testing, teasing.
She made a sound, half gasp, half whimper.
And James smiled against her skin.
"Not anymore," he murmured, and his grip tightened.
The abyss pulsed, alive with his will.
Heat licked at her skin, a slow, maddening burn. The unseen bindings tugged tighter, arching her back, leaving her open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. She had never felt smaller. She had never felt more owned.
And James, James was dead, she knew that now. But Eleanor also knew that James was always listening.
"You understand now, don’t you?" he whispered, dragging his teeth along her pulse, savouring the way it pounded, the way her breath broke beneath his touch. "This isn’t about love. This isn’t about power."
A beat of silence.
Then his fingers pressed harder.
Her whole body jerked, arched, surrendered.
"This is about belonging," he said.
His hand curled around her throat, not choking, not yet, but just enough to remind her who she belonged to.
"Say it," he demanded.
Eleanor’s lips parted, but she couldn’t form words. Couldn’t think. There was no thought left only sensation, heat, pleasure twisted with something darker, filthier.
James laughed softly, dragging his tongue along the soft part of her ear, his grip tightening.
"You can’t, can you?"
The abyss pressed closer, suffocating, overwhelming, cradling her in its hold.
"You don’t have words anymore," he murmured. "Just this."
Just him.
Her breath shattered, her body giving completely.
And James took.
Not gently.
Not sweetly.
With everything.
Because he was not a man anymore.
He was a god.
And she was his first worshipper, his only altar, his final ruin.
The Ritual Ends
Or begins.
