Good. Because I’m not stopping.
I push him back—not away. Down. He stumbles, letting me. He lets me pin him against the nearest wall with my hips, my mouth, and my teeth scraping along the stubble on his throat.
Because I am not asking. Not tonight.
Tonight, he gave me the one thing I never thought I could have.
Freedom.
So I take everything else. His body. His breath. The way he looks at me is like I’m gravity. I strip him slowly—not to tease, but to own. Each button is undone like a trigger, every inch of skin a fuse I’m lighting on purpose. He watches me with eyes that beg and burn. I don’t rush. I savor. The scrape of my nails down his chest. The way his hips twitch when I push the fabric off his waist. He’s breathing hard now, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Because he knows I’m not just undressing him. I’m unmaking him.
I drag my mouth over his stomach, teeth grazing skin like a warning. He fists his hands at his sides, chest heaving, wrecked and waiting. And when I drop to my knees, it’s not surrender.
It’s worship.
Dark, deliberate, filthy worship. The kind that carves itself into memory. The kind that says mine without ever speaking a word.
He swears when my mouth ghosts lower, the sound breaking from his throat like it’s been torn out. His hands hover at his sides, twitching, aching to touch but not daring to interrupt.
Good.
I want him desperate. Ruined. Reverent.
I kiss the sharp line of his hip, slow and claiming, then trail my tongue along the waistband still clinging to his thighs. His breath catches—ragged, unsteady, everything trembling beneath the surface.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper, dragging my nails back up his ribs, painting goosebumps in my wake. “You like being worshiped, baby?”
He nods, jerks, and clenches his fists like he’s holding on to the last scrap of control. “No,” I purr, biting just above his navel. “I want to hear it.”
His voice breaks. “Yes. Fuck, Stella—yes.”There it is.That unraveling sound. The one I’ll chase to the grave. I taste him likepunishment and praise. Like I’ve waited lifetimes to earn this moment, and I’ll die before I waste it.
He moans—loud, hoarse, like it’s dragging sin out of his lungs. “Jesus Christ—”
I smile against his skin, lips brushing his throat. “I’m not your religion,” I whisper. “I’m your reckoning.”
His legs are shaking, his breath hitching every time my fingers graze the edge of him. I take my time—slow, unhurried, and cruel.
Because this is mine.
His body. His devotion. And his trembling restraint.
“You’re holding back,” I murmur, dragging my mouth across his abdomen, teeth grazing skin like a dare. “Why?”
His breath hitches. “Because—” “Because you think I’ll break?” I laugh—low, sharp, and dangerous. “I already shattered.”
I drag my tongue up the length of him—slow, deliberate, like I’m tasting ruin. Like Iearnedit. Then I look up at him, daring him to move.
“Now put me back together.”
His jaw flexes. Fists clenched. Eyes—wild. Ruined.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t speak. Just grabs two fistfuls of my hair like he’s been starving to touch me like this.
And when he slams himself past my lips, it’s not gentle. It’s not careful.
It’sdesperate.
The kind of kiss between his cock and my throat that sayshe’ll die if I don’t let him fall apart in me.
