Page 82 of Ashen Torment

And then... the eyelids droop just like his. The lips curve in that slow, contemptuous way. The cut of the bone beneath the sculpted skin—elegant and hateful—takes my breath away.

My hand slips for a moment. The chisel falls crookedly against the marble, and a fragment bounces at my feet.

Why?

I lean toward the bust, my forehead pressed against the marble brow and my eyes fixed on that face.

Why do you continue to torment me?

My hands seize the sculpted neck and squeeze. My thumb presses against the smooth marble cheekbone. Cold yet beneath my skin flows liquid fire.

My hips brush the edge of the stone. I feel all the blood in my body flow to one specific point.

I stand up, backing away a step.

A male body cannot... cannot...

The memory resurfaces in my fingers: the softness of the young man’s black hair, its weight, the scent.

My cock gives a sharp, demanding twitch.

I clench my fist.

No.

I close my eyes, breathing with difficulty.

But even so, with my eyelids shut, I see the pale nape beneath the collar, the movement of his throat as he swallows, those judging eyes ready to swallow you whole.

I open them.

The chisel lies at my feet, fallen when I stood up abruptly. I pick it up with trembling hands and approach the sculpture again.

I try to change the face I have created. My hands move, guided by an impulse I do not know. I create the lips, parted, and I surprise myself.

My forehead rests against the sculpture’s.

Cold, hard yet impossibly alive in my mind.

My hand moves on its own. It slides along the sculpted cheek, follows the sharp profile of the chin, then brushes the slightly parted lips.

Stone, only stone yet they seem to yield, to welcome. A shudder courses through me, brief but violent.

My hips tilt.

Once.

Twice.

For fuck’s sake.

The contact with the marble is freezing, but the rest of my body burns. An indecent heat, rising like a fever.

The truth hits me like a slap.

It excites me.

The body does not obey what the mind commands.