Page 115 of King of Ashes
Our love story is a tragedy—two lovers destined to mourn each other.
I feel him everywhere. His earthy scent with spicy notes intoxicating me, his magnificent body owning me. He claimed me a long time ago. No wonder I could never have belonged to anyone else.
Rocking his hips, every thrust has my eyes rolling in the back of their sockets, and I slash my nails down his back as if rewriting our love story with his blood.
His throat vibrates with a deep groan that intensifies the eroticism of the moment––sheer carnality and raw passion.
It’s an overload of sensations. He might kill me with so much pleasure. His steel cock. His dexterous hands. His hungry mouth. They serve one purpose: to drive me wild.
Letting go, I embrace rapture, coming on a stuttered breath, but he’s not done with me. It’s like he craves to fuck me for all the times he couldn’t.
It’s a strange mix of desperation and passion, like we both sense the end, so we take whatever is possible, but we’re both greedy, too needy to sate our famished beings. It’s not enough. Nothing ever is.
Neither of us stops, our bodies moving into a sensuous rhythm, changing positions until I forget about reality, overdosing on pleasure.
Sweat coats our bodies, sticking to our feverish skin. I don’t care how I look because what transpires between us is sublime. If sex were art, our bodies just created a masterpiece.
“Vian…”
“Zara…”
Our names flow from our mouths with an echo of shattered dreams and cursed love.
Brushing a strand of hair from my face, he presses his mouth on me, coming inside me on a guttural groan triggering another climax. I’ve lost count––no recollection of the hour, the day just as irrelevant.
It resembles an epic goodbye, coming with the name of the other, finding bliss for the last time.
He falls on top of me, but holds himself on his palms not to squish me when he did that all along.
Scooting himself against the headboard, he grabs me by the waist and places me on top of him. Even if he just came, he’s still a bit hard, so he enters me as if locking himself in and making sure his cum stays inside me.
I lounge on top of him, catching my breath and slowly returning to cruel reality.
A deep sigh heaves in my chest. Talking to him has always been the most natural thing, but I keep my mouth sealed, afraid I might slip and ruin everything.
“We should go somewhere else. Just the two of us,” he says in that deep and husky voice of his as he caresses my back.
Our honeymoon seems a lifetime ago.
“We just returned from one.” My voice sounds scratchy, exactly how I feel.
“Who cares, mi sol. I want to show the world to my world.” He kisses my forehead, and I stiffen, hating that he does that, touches me as if he has every right, kisses me like I am his, whispering sweet nothingness––a permanent reminder I am his.
“I’ve been patient, Zara.” He keeps caressing me, lulling me into a false sense of safety.
I was a fool twice. I won’t be a third time.
“Are you pregnant?” he asks gently, sending a chill down my spine.
That he thinks that’s the only reason I could be off makes me even angrier.
“No,” I bite, voice clipped.
You wished I were. I dodged a bullet there. No need to worry.
“Sure?”
“Yes,” I gulp. “I’m sure.”
