dawnuttle
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“If you go lower,” he warns, his voice low and uneven, “I swear—”
You roll your eyes, half-laughing at the familiar retreat. Always threatening, always teetering—but never truly pulling back.
“You swear what?” you ask, lips curling into something wicked.
His eyes narrow. Dark. Unyielding.
“You won’t be getting out of this pad anytime soon,” he says. It’s not a tease. It’s a promise—delivered like a curse and a prayer in one breath.
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To be wanted like this. To be driven mad by someone who gives you the same in return. You’re not just being taken.
You’re being cherished.
And fulfilled.
Completely.
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“I want you to consume me… with your true form. Show me what you keep hidden beneath.”
Sylus’ smirk sharpened, amusement flickering through crimson eyes.
“Only if you promise not to run from me.”
“Never,” Rafayel vowed, his voice breathless yet unwavering.
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The thought of him filling you up sent something electric through your veins. Your reflection in the mirror was a vision of ruin—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes hazy with lust. But you needed more. You needed him to see it.