Page 200 of Ruins
His palm settles over my ribs, fingers spreading as if to hold me together. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head, unable to find my voice.
“I see the woman who makes me forget how to breathe,” he says, his tone soft but unshakable. “The one who holds more power over me than anyone ever has. Do you realize that?”
I try to look away, but his fingers catch my chin, forcing me to meet our reflection’s gaze.
“Santo—”
“I’m not asking you to believe it yet,” he cuts in gently. “Just… let me show you.”
His hands skim down my sides, deliberate and slow, like he’s tracing devotion into my skin; like he’s painting over every part I’ve ever criticized.
“Every inch of you, Vasilisa,” his voice drops into something raw, something that reverberates through my bones, “is mine to admire.”
A shudder rolls through me. I exhale shakily, my heart a relentless rhythm against my ribs.
His forehead presses lightly to the side of my head, his breath warm and steady. “You’re perfect exactly as you are. And if you ever doubt that…” His fingers intertwine with mine, guiding our joined hands across my stomach, my hips, the places I’ve always avoided, the parts of myself I’d never let anyone claim. “I’ll remind you.”
I close my eyes, letting the words settle in the deepest parts of me, in the spaces that once held doubt. When I open them again, the mirror feels different.I feel different.
Santo’s gaze never wavers, burning through the reflection.
“There you are,” he murmurs in approval, his hands leaving mine to mold themselves around my waist.
He is silent for a moment, allowing both of us to take in our reflections. I watch us in the mirror; his stormy eyes are intent on my face while mine are drawn towards our intertwined form.
My chest rises and falls, my body trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer force of his presence. His hands start to move again, fingertips whispering over my skin, exposing me inch by inch to the cool clarity of the glass. His touch is electric, tracing over the lines of my body as if he’s savoring me.
I watch as his eyes drink me in, dark and consuming, as if he is starving for me. My skin hums under the weight of his attention, every touch a silent promise.
Each touch is a testament to his words - I can feel reverence in his fingertips as they explore the contours of my form, each caress lingering with a tenderness that reduces me to breathless silence. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it echoing in the silence of the room.
His fingers pause at the swell of my breasts, tracing their outline before capturing one in his hand, his thumb grazing over a sensitive peak. My breath hitches and he smirks, his hands leave my breasts that are mere handfuls compared to what I thought he wanted, they go past my stomach which I feared was too flat for a man who needs robust, and they glide past my hipbones, that I expected him to be repulsed by for being slightly visible.
He slides his hand lower, his fingers dipping between my legs where I ache for him most. I’m bare before him, open, wanton.
I gasp when his fingers brush over my clit, pleasure sparking through me. My eyes flutter closed, but his grip tightens on my hip.
“Look at yourself, Mia Dea.”
His voice is a command wrapped in velvet. It ripples through me, stealing the air from my lungs, forcing my eyes open.
And what I see leaves me in awe.
The girl in the mirror is powerful. She is raw and uninhibited, her skin flushed, her lips parted, her body trembling under his worship. Santo’s eyes blaze with unfiltered possession, with love. He isn’t just touching me—he’s claiming me.
Heloveswhat he sees. The proof evident, not only in his eyes, but the hardness of his thick cock pressed against me.
His hand leaves my pussy only to glide down the inside of my thigh, leaving slick trails on my skin, marking me with my own arousal. His smirk deepens, the kind that makes my knees weak, the kind that tells me he’s far from done.
“Vasilisa,” he whispers my name like a prayer, like a sacred vow. His hand cups my breast again, his fingers rolling my nipple between them, and I let out a soft moan, my back arching. “You’re a goddess.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, down my neck, all the way to my chest. It isn’t embarrassment. It’s something deeper.Pleasure. It’s the pleasure of being seen, of being desired byhimin a way I never thought possible.
I’ve been craving this feeling since I met him.
His hand moves back from tracing circles around my thighs, his finger teasing, before sliding inside me. My breath hitches. My body clenches greedily around the intrusion, seeking, needing.
