Page 85 of Scarred in Silence
Astra’s breathing turns shallow when my palms frame her hips. The storm presses its face to the window, wind rattling the glass. I think about all of the things I’ve dreamed of doing to her, but that’ll have to wait.
Tonight is about breath.
I nip the front of her hip, tongue softening the bruise. She whimpers, knees wobbling. I grip harder, leaving finger indents on perfect skin. A throaty “please” escapes her before she can bite it back.
“Patience,” I say in a low tone, but my own nails dig marks on to her ass.
I rise, towering over her. She tips her chin to keep eye contact—if devotion could kill, I’d be ashes on the ground. I cup her jaw, thumb sliding to the divot beneath her bottom lip. Her breath leaves a condensation halo on my skin.
“One command,” I murmur.
“Yes, Lucien.”
“You keep eye contact. Always.”
Lightning flashes. In its afterglow, I see her pupils widen—fear or adrenaline, both are worship, stroking my ego. She is the only woman who can do that so perfectly.
Iback her farther until she sinks to the firm mattress. It releases a thud like a body bag. I wonder if she notices the implication. Judging by her shiver, she does.
I strip my suit, skin prickling as humid air licks fresh scratches from last week’s sparing with Dante. She studies each mark with hungry eyes. Not fear—intrigue.
Rain crescendos overhead as if the gods were playing “How the Gods Kill” by Danzig.
I climb onto the bed, knees straddling her hips. The bed rustles beneath 200 pounds of intent. The bulb sways slightly, casting war-movie shadows across our skin.
“Hands above the pillow,” I order. She obeys, wrists crossing like she expects rope. Not tonight. Rope’s a promise of safety; breath play is pure trust.
I slide palms up her wrists, over forearms, into interlaced fingers—locking her own arms as a bar across the headboard. Then with one palm I smooth hair away to bare her throat.
Her breathing hitches—visible pulse. Her eye contact never wavers. Good girl.
I lean until my lips graze the shell of her ear. “Last chance,” I murmur.
“Green,” she rasps. “Always green with you.”
It’s enough. My hand spreads across her neck, thumb to pulse, middle finger beneath jaw hinge, resting my pinky along delicate tendon. Pressure light—just a cradle. Her breath becomes a hush between parted lips, eyes blown glassy but sure.
I flatten my chest to hers, cock teasing her wet entrance, holding still. I watch her breathe under my palm. One inhale. Another. I squeeze—firmly. Her eyes flare, but she nods once. Green. Permission.
Ipush inside slowly. The slide steals my sanity. She’s so warm, I swear the dopamine hits before the nerve endings. Halfway in, I ease pressure off her throat; she gasps. Oxygen floods, mixes with endorphins, and pupils dilate further. I bottom out. She clenches, moans shredded.
“Color?” I demand.
“Hah— green.” Ragged, but there.
I start to move in a punishing grind meant to blur pleasure and proof. Every thrust drags breath from her lungs; each retreat lets her suck air. My hand modulates that supply—tightening, loosening, playing her like a pipe organ.
Storms crackle overhead, thunder rattles headboard bolts. I thrust harder, pace turning feral. The sheet beneath her sticks to sweaty skin. She tries to arch; my free hand pins her hip. Control reigns over everything.
Her lashes flutter. I release pressure—she inhales sharply, struck by a wave of euphoria. A swirl of color flushes her cheeks.
“Lucien—” she breathes, barely audible.
“What do you need?”
“More. Harder.”
I rock into her so deep her toes curl. My hand tightens fractionally. Her lips part on a silent vowel. I hold that line as she floats near the edge of black, eyes glossy, yet still anchored. My name becomes a choked mantra. Her only mantra.
