Page 265 of These Tears

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he asks softly. That tone – once laced with danger – now melts into something far more potent, sending heat through me instead of locking my body with fear.

He waits for me to decide what this room means instead of deciding for me. Because he finally knows that I’d never weaponise his hunger, the twists and curves of his desire – only match them.

Moving from one camera to the next, calibrating angles and adjusting tripods, I reach the final one and the tremor in my fingers becomes anticipation.

‘Dim the lights,’ I murmur without looking at him.

He hesitates for a second before his hand lifts slowly to the switches.

The lights morph into a rich sepia, just enough to highlight movement, just enough to paint skin in shades of gold.

‘Take off your clothes,’ I whisper.

His shoulders relax. I haven’t even realised how rigidly he’s been standing while letting me process everything.

He crosses a few steps towards the small drawers at the desk, pulling out a bottle. It flies in an arc until it lands in my hand.

I flip it over to show the label.

Lavender Massage Oil.

Before I look up again, his fingers are already working the hem of his black jumper upwards, exposing the first hard ridges of his stomach.

I chase the lines over the ripple of muscle, the flex of tattoos. I match him, undoing buttons, peeling away layers.

‘On the bed,’ he rumbles, the words moving across my spine like silk and flame and desolation I can’t wait to drown in.

Backing away slowly, crawling up the mattress, I watch the glint in his eyes darken with every movement I make.

I’m not entirely sure what decadence he’s planning – but the hunger on his face is enough to tell me it won’t matter once it begins.

‘I want to watch you use that oil on yourself,’ he says.

My eyes trace its outline in my palm as something wicked comes over me – because he’s voiced his want aloud this time.

I toss the bottle back to him. He catches it one-handed, eyes narrowing, lips parting with a soundless question as his body locks up.

‘You do it,’ I whisper.

A slow inhale. A twitch of his jaw. That delicious flicker of a smirk.

‘Demon,’ he breathes.

I reach both hands towards him.

Starving.

He comes towards me slowly, every honed angle of his naked body polished further by the low light.

If this is what damnation feels like, I never want to be saved.

Twisting my hair up into a loose knot, I close my eyes and offer my throat without hesitation.

The first contact is cool, almost shocking, as the oil spills over my skin and runs downwards in slow, indulgent lines. His hands follow, spreading warmth through it with a pressure that makes me dizzy with need. Thumbs sweep along the line of my collarbones before gliding down over my breasts.

Pinching both my nipples, he rolls them gently until the nerves flare all the way to my core. The contrast between the slick glide towards my ribs and the intensity of his touch makes my skin pebble. I feel him everywhere at once as he takes his time to memorise me by touch alone.

I press my oiled hands to his hard chest, spreading the slickness over the muscle, up across his shoulders and down his arms, trailing the lines of ink that make him all the more damning.