She dropped her head back, nails digging into his shoulders, her body unraveling and rebuilding around every thrust.
It was more than sex.
It was a ritual.
Ashar began to whisper, in a low, ancient language she didn’t know, but one that felt like it had lived in her bones forever. Every syllable curled around her like smoke. Like silk. Like spell work. Her body responded, arching, trembling, opening in ways she didn’t know were possible.
He turned with her still wrapped around him and carried her down to the floor. He didn’t drop her. He laid her down, careful, like she was something precious.
He moved inside her with a new intensity, slow, deep, deliberate, watching every twitch of her face, every roll of her eyes, every whimper that escaped.
His hands slid to her thighs, splayed them wider, and drove in again with a pressure that made her sob.
“I want to ruin you,” he said, his voice a low growl against her skin. “For everyone who made you feel like you were too much. Or not enough.”
She choked on a moan.
“I want you wrecked with how good this feels. I want you coming on my cock with my name in your mouth.”
And she did.
Her climax crashed over her, wild and wrenching, her body caught in its undertow. She came again and again, her voice hoarse, her body trembling with aftershocks she couldn’t control.
Ashar didn’t stop.
He held her through it, fucked her through every tremor, every plea, until she was begging him to come too.
And when he did, when his body finally gave in and he groaned against her neck, spilling inside her with a shudder that rocked through his whole frame.
They stayed tangled like that. Breath syncing, their skin buzzing, and sweat cooling between them. He cradled her head with one hand, his other arm locking her tight against him, murmuring something again in that strange, ancient tongue.
She didn’t need a translation.
She felt it in his hands, and she felt it in her chest.
She felt it in the way he held her, like he might never let go, and maybe, the scariest thing wasn’t him leaving. It was the possibility that this time, someone might stay.
8
I Thought This Would Be More Sexy and Less Existential Crisis
Blair woke to the scent of cinnamon and candle smoke and noticed Ashar wasn’t in bed.
She sat up slowly, muscles aching in the best way, blanket sliding down her bare chest. The apartment was quiet, too quiet, and for one terrible second, she thought maybe he was gone.
Then she saw him. On the floor, shirtless, crouched over the rug with a piece of chalk in hand. He was drawing something, circles inside circles, symbols nested in lines. A shimmering sigil pulsed faintly against the dark floorboards, as if it were breathing.
She blinked. “Uh, are we about to summon another one of you? Because I don’t have enough snacks for that.”
Ashar glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Stabilizing the thread. It’s a precaution.
Blair rubbed her eyes. “That’s not ominous at all.”
He stood and stretched, chalk dust smudged on his fingers, tattoos flickering beneath his skin like ink remembering how toglow.
She wrapped the blanket around herself and padded over. “You never talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
