Chapter 19, Mira
I sink into the couch beside Zoey and let my head drop onto her shoulder, the weightless surrender that only a best friend can catch. Across the room, Xan leans against the doorway like he’s carved into it—watchful, unreadable, carrying that ever-present air of quiet torment. There is a softness to his look now, a rare flicker of contentment at seeing me breathe easier beside a friend who knows the real me.
Zoey gently strokes my hair, the way she used to when we were teenagers hiding from the world. We both stare down at the garbage bags near the door as if they were cursed relics.
“You have to tell me what happened, Mira. I mean… you loved Julian,” she says softly.
Xan’s entire body shifts—subtle, but seismic. His arms tighten; his shoulders lift slightly. Jealousy. Not the loud, messy kind. His is quiet. Lethal.
Because even if she was only speaking in past tense, even if Julian is just trash waiting to be hauled out, the idea that I ever loved someone else—that someone else touched the parts of me Xan now holds like sacred fire—is enough to make him burn.
And honestly? I could get used to it.
“I don’t really want to talk about it… Let’s just say that, once again, if it hadn’t been for Xan, I would probably still be stuck under the sweaty arms of some greasy old pervert.”
Zoey stays quiet for a moment. I can see her brain working, trying to stitch meaning from the scraps I am telling her.
I cannot blame her. I have given her so little to hold on to, and yet she is still here, persevering.
After a brief pause, she lifts one brow and says, with a crooked little smile,
“Was he rich at least?”
The laughter bursts out of me like a pressure valve cracking open—sharp, loud, and so desperately needed. She joins me, our voices climbing over one another like they used to when we were fifteen and fearless.
“Yeah,” I say through giggles, wiping a tear from my cheek. “But he definitely had a tragically tiny dick.”
We both fall into hysterics, the kind that steals your breath and makes your ribs ache. For a second, the world tilts back into a place that feels like home. Even Xan cannot help but chuckle—whether it is at our absurd jokes or just at us. Either way, the moment feels warm and right, a balm over bruised skin. He steps forward and gently takes my hand in his.
“Alright, ladies,” he says, low but amused, “I will handle the charity bags. You two deserve a drink—hell, maybe five. Grab a cab, go sip something sinful, and if you’re not stumbling back with mascara tears and inside jokes that make no sense, you’re doing it wrong.”
I glance down. My palm is now filled with twenties—crisp, clean, and far too many.
“I can pay for my own things, you know,” I protest, lifting my eyes to meet his.
Except Zoey is quicker. She snatches the bills with the speed of a woman possessed.
“Geez, are you insane? You say thank you and run before he changes his mind. Go, go, GO!”
She grabs her purse and yanks me by the arm with the force of a tornado in heels. My feet barely brush the ground as she drags me toward the door. I twist back to catch a sight of Xan, smiling at him through the whirl of motion. He meets my gaze with a knowing wink before gently closing behind us.
Let’s be real—a tiny part of me expects to come back to a ceremonial bonfire of Julian’s belongings blazing in the middle of my living room. I remind myself: trust. I need to let him in. Even if he has an unhinged glint in his eye when it comes to my ex.
After several hours of laughter, whispers, and just enough poor decisions to call it a proper night, Zoey—true to her form—had indulged in a few more drinks than me. Especially knowing it was all on Xan’s tab. I, ever the slightly more responsible one, stuck to three delicate flutes of sparkling wine. Just enough to hush the swirl of emotions inside me, but not enough to drown them completely.
As Zoey swayed off toward her apartment with a slurred “text me when you get laid,” I sent her home to sleep off the three—or maybe six—extra glasses she definitely did not need.
Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the weight of the day finally peeling off my chest—but as I step out of the cab and climb the stairs, I feel a curious flutter of excitement at the thought of finding Xan waiting for me.
Could we ever live a life like this? The kind where you unlock the door, toss your keys in a bowl, and call out, “Honey, I’m home!” without irony or bloodstains?
I turn the knob slowly, half-expecting something to leap out at me—like a dramatic squirrel with a vendetta or Xan holding a flamethrower made of Julian’s underwear. What I find instead still knocks the breath out of me.
An aisle of rose petals. Crimson, fragrant, some absurd scene from a romance film we would both laugh at in any other context. I blink. Once. Twice. Then smile.
Of course.
Leave it to the emotionally constipated assassin to turn my apartment into a florist’s fever dream.
I tiptoe forward, heart fluttering with a ridiculous mix of excitement and suspense, ready to find Xan sprawled across the bed like some vintage romance novel cover—shirtless, draped in a bear faux fur with a glass of whiskey and a fireplace roaring behind him.
As I follow the trail of rose petals deeper into the apartment, an eerie sound reaches my ears—a soft, muffled squeak. Curious and somewhat alarmed, I creep toward the bedroom door, which hangs slightly ajar. Candlelight spills out in flickering waves, casting mystical golden shadows into the hallway.
I push the door open with a mix of caution and anticipation, my breath stopping the second I lay eyes on Xan—bare chest rising and falling with the lazy rhythm of a man who knows he has already won. His skin catches the candlelight, every line of him impossibly perfect and infuriatingly calm, his infamous mask still in place.
I actually find myself enjoying it tonight. There is something maddeningly hot about the mystery. He will take it off when he is ready… although I am aching for that moment more than I would like to admit.
“Well, hello, stranger,” I purr, voice dipped in velvet and champagne.
He offers no reply. Just lifts his chin slightly, eyes glinting through the mask, and jerks his head toward the far side of the room. I follow his gaze.
That’s when I see it—when I see him.
Julian. There. Tied to one of my kitchen chairs as some grotesque display, his mouth sealed shut with layers of duct tape, his panicked little whimpers now making perfect, nauseating sense. He is shirtless, already bleeding—thin slices carved into his shoulders like cruel invitations. But it is the message scrawled in blood across his abdomen that steals my breath.
#2
At first, I fail to understand. The number stares back at me, until finally, I see it —the absurd little gift bow perched on top of his head like a final insult. And suddenly, it clicks.
This is the second gift.
The first was the eye of the man who attacked me at the gala, wrapped up like some gruesome token of devotion. And now this—Julian, the man who sold me off without a flicker of guilt, bound and trembling, offered like a sacrifice on a silver altar.
This is Xan’s idea of justice. Of romance. Of love.
And I have never felt so truly touched.
I turn slowly, pulse still fluttering, only to find Xan already beside me—silent, a shadow summoned by vengeance itself. He offers no words, just lifts his arm and presents a knife I have never seen before.
The blade catches the dim candlelight like a shard of starlight—sleek, retractable, lethally elegant. Along its edge lies an inscription carved deep into the steel.
To Serve the Unseen.
The hilt is obsidian-dark, cool against my skin, crowned with a gold-etched emblem I recognize instantly—the Order’s seal; a T encircled in ritualistic precision. The moment I wrap my hand around it, a tremor of power coils through me. A knowing. A claiming. Like a veil has been lifted. Like every scar etched into my spirit is sharpening into armor.
With this weapon, I am no longer a prey.
I am the reckoning. I am the finality. I am the answer to every man who has ever mistaken my body for a battlefield.
“Just for you,” Xan murmurs softly into my ear, his fingers threading through my hair, the touch gentle yet possessive as he inhales deeply its scent.
Normally, I might have flinched, found the gesture unsettling, too intimate, too strange. But in this world we’ve woven, where the lines between tenderness and dominance blur, it is nothing but natural. His presence, a dark pull I cannot escape, seems to demand this closeness, this connection.
His hands slide across my body, each movement slow and deliberate, as I stand there, poised, staring down at Julian who’s sobbing so loudly I am pretty sure he is auditioning for the role of a gender-switch Moaning Myrtle. His tears are pouring so hard, it’s like he is trying to drown us all in his own fucking guilt—I’m half-expecting a lifeguard to show up and throw him a pity float.
“Stare into his eyes, Mira. Show him the woman you have become, and the one you’re about to be. A power is flowing through you—prove to him he was wrong, that the greatest mistake of his life, his last mistake, was underestimating you.”
I can feel it now, a strength building inside me, a kind of cold resolve. The absurdity of it all strikes me—there he is, breaking down, while I am standing tall, embracing this twisted evolution of myself, ready to turn the page.
He moves in behind me with a dark, simmering grace, his chest pressing strongly to my back as one hand curls around my breast. His thumb kneads small, delicate circles around my nipple. It is not just a touch; it is a quiet claim, a way of saying I’m here, and I’m not letting go. The other slips around to guide mine, his touch patient, possessive, and maddeningly skilled. Our fingers wrap together over the cool handle of the knife, and the weight of it in my palm suddenly feels electric. His breath skims my neck, warm, a lover whispering sins instead of sweet nothings.
Slowly, almost reverently, he leads it forward until the cold steel brushes Julian’s cheek. A teasing caress at first. Then again—this time in reverse. However, the second stroke is no longer gentle. The edge bites through his skin, enough for blood to bead and trickle down his neck.
At the sight of the cut we’ve just inflicted, my body arches instinctively, spine curving as my lower back presses against Xan’s already hard cock behind me—a desperate plea for grounding, for connection. A breath slips from my lips, rich with unholy satisfaction—unspoken, but screaming with desire.
I take firmer control of the blade, dragging it from the curve of Julian’s neck down to the center of his abdomen. The pressure is intentional—enough to make him flinch, enough to remind him he no longer owns me. When I reach the ridges of his stomach, I angle the knife, pressing deeper, testing the resistance of flesh that once thought itself impenetrable.
Behind me, I hear the soft rasp of a zipper being undone, the quiet unveiling of a desire that has been caged far too long. Xan frees himself, thick with anticipation, his breath brushing my shoulder. A bomb waiting to explode.
“God, Mira… you’re fucking unbelievable. I have seen nothing more devastatingly beautiful than you wielding that blade like it was born from your very bones.”
A twisted sort of pride coats his words.
“I have seen beauty before, but this… this is power. It’s pure. It’s real. And it’s all you, my little fox.”
A heat rushes through me at his words, curling around and tightening low in my belly. I have never felt so seen, so desired for the parts of me that were always quiet. My fingers tighten on the handle of the knife with hunger. I turn my head just slightly, a smirk pulling my lips.
“I’m an artist, Xan. You should know that by now—after all that time you spent watching me in the gallery.”
He leans in, whispering against the shell of my ear.
“I wasn’t just watching, I was studying. Every brushstroke, every line you drew… they told me a story. But nothing compares to what you are painting right now.”
His hand tightens ever so slightly on my waist, grounding me.
“This is your masterpiece, Mira. Every mark will be yours to create. His blood will be your paint, and his screams your symphony. You are the artist, and he will be nothing but your darkest realization.”
I kneel in front of Julian like I’m about to give a prayer, except this time, the offering is pain. I tap the blade against his thigh while he’s trembling, sweat soaking through what is left of his shirt, eyes wide and whimpering like a gutted animal.
Pathetic.
“You used to run your damn mouth non-stop, remember? All that confidence, all those empty promises. Where’s that big talk now?” I smirk. “Oh right. Buried under the duct tape and the desperation.”
He tries to shift, but the ropes bite into him. His chair creaks, feet scraping the floor in useless protest.
I sigh dramatically. “You’re twitching like a damn dying fish. Honestly Julian, it’s rude. This is supposed to be my special moment.”
With no more thinking, I stab the knife clean into the thick of his thigh. Not just a prick—no, I twist it in like I am carving my initials into a tree trunk. He lets out a choked scream under the tape, his eyes rolling, body convulsing in sheer panic.
“There. See?” I say, twisting once more for good measure. “Now you’re paying me attention.”
Blood pours from the wound, spreading across his jeans as I wipe my blade on his collar and rise to my feet slowly.
I glance back at Xan, giving him a sweet, almost innocent smile.
“He twitched too much, baby. Look, I fixed it.”
Did I just call him baby?
Maybe it is the alcohol loosening the last threads of inhibition, though for once, I feel I am finally slipping into the skin I was always meant to wear—one that is in control, no longer begging for permission to exist.
The urge to hit him spirals into something feral. My palm lands again and again, until his cheek splits and blood splatters ink across my fingers. The sound—wet, savage echoes, a violent hymn that drowns out the past and baptizes me into the destiny I am about to fulfill.
Before I can even finish, Xan spins me around to face him, my back now shielding me from Julian’s pitiful sobs. In one swift motion, he strips off my shirt and bra, exposing me to the candlelit air. The tension in the room thickens as his hands roam my body with purpose. There is an edge to his touch, almost as if he is holding back, yet I can feel the primal need coursing through him. He leans in closer, and I brace myself for what’s next.
Instead of diving into the depths of his hunger, he pauses, a flicker in his gaze. With a swift motion, he lifts his mask—just enough to expose his mouth.
His lips graze my stomach gently. The rest of his face stays hidden, still that moment of intimacy feels louder than everything else, more significant than I ever expected. The sensation of his mouth on my skin makes my thighs shake as if they were getting their own earthquake.
His tongue ravages my breast, kissing, biting, worshiping—he is starving and I am the only thing that can feed him.
Xan’s teeth scrape across my breast as he drags his mouth lower, nipping, tasting, branding every inch he claims. His hands slide up my ribs, fingers spread wide, trying to memorize the shape of me by touch alone. I arch into him, my breath ragged, my skin burning with the need to be devoured.
“I could carve you into memory,” he growls against my flesh, voice gravel and sin. “Every breath you take, every sound you make—it belongs to me now.”
The chair creaks again. A whine. Julian’s presence, so deplorable, so weak, only heightens the charge in the room. I realize that his despair, that miserable noise of justice finally served, only fuels the ache coiling in me, intensifying the craving I feel for Xan.
I cannot tear my eyes from his mouth—now fully revealed for the first time, far more dangerous than I ever imagined. His lips are thick, sculpted, and unapologetically dominant. They were crafted to command, consume and move with a quiet confidence that makes me more excited than ever. My own lips part of their own accord, trembling in invitation, desperate to be met. When his tongue touches my skin—it is fire meeting silk. My nerves ignite in cascading waves, my body hyperaware, honoring the sensation.
Xan’s hand glides along my thigh, unhurried. He moves to my entrance with a devotion that borders on obsession—committing the texture, the warmth, the very essence of me. His fingers press into the deep tender of my vagina, as if imprinting his presence beneath the surface of my body was not enough. Each inch of my pussy he claims sends an electrifying thrill unraveling into my core, a whisper that deepens with every breath.
“I noticed your lips parting,” he murmurs, his voice a low velvet drawl that drips with suggestion. “Figured you might search for something to savor.”
He wastes no time, bringing his fingers to my mouth—slick with the heat of what he has taken from me, glistening with that indecent, creamy flavor of my surrender. He brushes them over my lower lip first, teasing, observing with sharp eyes as I open wider, soft and wanting. When he finally pushes them in, the taste hits like a jolt—natural, intimate, undeniably mine. He devours me with eyes ablaze, torn between sacred awe and aching desire.
“What you are tasting Mira, is your own liberation. This is the flavor of control, little fox—the kind that only those who dare to surrender can truly understand.”
I never thought I could feel this strong in a moment of pure domination. I used to believe that women who submitted were weak, fragile, stripped of any artifice. Yet standing beside the right dominant, I realize how wrong I was.
With Julian, I felt small, suffocated by his attempts to control me. His dominance was a false mask, a lame attempt to keep me beneath him, but it only made me feel incapable, a shadow of myself.
Now, with Xan, I see the difference. It is not about being weak; it is about the strength that rises when you are truly seen, when you are pushed to your limits not by someone’s insecurity, but by their power. Julian’s dominance only crushed me. This… this makes me whole. He makes me whole.
As I savor every lingering trace on his finger, I thrust my fingers deep into my core; the sensation inundating. Xan lets out a satisfied sigh, his breath mingling with the involuntary cry that I let escape. It is as though time halts, the room hums with an electric tension, as euphoria blends with a creeping sense of doom.
“I deemed it necessary for you to experience it—so that you, too, could fully taste the force of my transformation,” I whisper as my fingers slip on his tongue, the warmth of my inside wrapping around it.
“Mira, by doing this, you are unlocking a ferocity within me I’m uncertain your body is prepared to withstand.”
I chuckle softly, the corners of my lips curling mischievously.
“Xan Hayes, are you actually asking for permission?”
His laughter bursts out, richer than mine, as he responds with a grin.
“As if I’d ever be that foolish.”
He lifts me effortlessly, his grip tightening around my waist as he pulls my legs apart, spreading them wide with a feral intensity. My body sinks into his as he moves us towards the bed, the roughness of his touch igniting every nerve.
With one swift motion, he presses me down into the soft sheets, his chest against mine grounding me while his hands roam, owning every part of me. My legs, now sprawled on either side, feel the heat of his hands as he positions me with ruthless force, ordering me to feel the full intensity of his desire.
“But before I allow you to taste the overwhelming power of what I carry, I must finish the feast you so graciously invited me to enjoy.”
With those words, he buries his face between my thighs—so lush, so drenched in sweetness it seems to bloom beneath his touch. His tongue moves with precision and intent through my bottom lips, tracing every ridge and curve, learning a sacred book written in flavor and sensation, determined to leave no part of the offering untouched.
Each stroke of his tongue sends tiny tremors straight to my chest. He gripped my thighs with a possessive steadiness—anchoring me, keeping me grounded in the intensity of it all. My spine arches involuntarily, clutching the sheets—the only thing tethering me to reality—as each wave of sensation threatens to drag me deeper into the abyss.
He devours every part of me, owning every note with meticulous adoration, a secret promise in every languid motion that he will not stop until I am trembling, undone, and carved open entirely by pleasure. He feasts on me with the kind of focus that borders on violence, trying to consume the forbidden fruit itself.
My body bucks beneath him while his grip only tightens, fingers bruising into my thighs to keep me exactly where he wants me—spread, exposed, helpless to the devotion he offers with his mouth. My vision blurs, my thoughts scatter—he is unmaking me, piece by piece.
When I dare to look down, his eyes catch mine—wild, ravenous, born to break me apart and make me beg for it. And I do. Not with words, but with the desperate way my hips rise to meet his mouth again and again. His tongue moved in slow, hypnotic circles, dragging pleasure from the deepest corners of me, coaxing my body to tremble beneath the weight of his focus.
He drags his tongue over my clit one last time—before lifting his head, his mouth slick, his breathing erratic. His jaw flexes like he is barely hanging on to control. His eyes… his eyes are pure chaos. They burn into me, pinning me down harder than his hands ever could.
“I could fucking die here,” he murmurs. “Bury my mouth between your thighs and call it a damn good death.”
As I smile while rolling my eyes, I hear Julian’s lame sobs getting out of control. It is almost funny, if it weren’t so fucked up. The desperation radiates from him and I don’t have to look to know he is breaking.
Xan’s voice cuts through the mess.
“Oh my God, will you shut the fuck up? You had one goddamn job, Beckett,” he spits. “Please her. Protect her. Fuck her like she mattered. Instead, you bored her senseless, sold her to some rich prick and tried to call it romance.”
He laughs, but there is nothing warm about it. It’s a sound that strikes.
“If you didn’t want another man to make her moan in front of you, maybe you should have touched her like a gentleman. Not like some sad little boy hoping for gold stars and pity kisses.”
Xan does not even bother to turn around. He is too busy soaking in control, enjoying every second of this. He knows what he is doing, knows just how to twist the knife.
“She’s mine now. You were never good enough to start with and I’m going to fuck her the way you couldn’t even dream of.”
I am not sure why I cannot look away. Maybe it is the rage, the way Xan owns the room with every word, every step. This twisted satisfaction as I hear Julian fall apart, I can’t help it.
“Now stay the fuck down, shut that garbage that you call your mouth, and enjoy the show, Romeo. Oh and, spoiler alert: my cock’s going to feel way better than yours.”
The moment his words leave his lips, the silence is razor-sharp. My breath catches somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and I swear I can feel every molecule in the room vibrating. I tremble—not from fear, not even from anticipation—but from the overwhelming, wicked thrill of being wanted like this. Possessed like this.
Xan stays rooted, ignoring Julian completely, perched above me on the bed, his eyes now fixed on mine.
“You ready for him to see what it looks like when someone actually knows what the fuck they’re doing?” he lets out, teeth grazing my thighs.
He notices that my legs shake, traitorous and frail. Of course he does. A cruel smirk twists on his lips as he climbs up my body, the drag of his chest against mine leaving my skin burning with need. Every part of him moves with intention. He wants me to feel every shift of muscle, every second of the turmoil he is about to unleash. His hand wraps around my throat and leans in so closely I can taste the remnants of myself on his lips.
“I warned you, Mira,” he growls, his voice a dark rumble that vibes through my ribs. “You woke something dangerously feral.”
“That’s what I’ve wanted since the night you brushed past me on that street, Xan...”
His gaze darkens with a subtle smile.
“And from that second, little fox, I knew—I was going to ruin you beautifully.”
The moment I have been waiting for so long arrives as he finally enters me—not as a conqueror, but as a man who already knows every hidden ache I carry and intends to ease them all, one push at a time. My back arches against the mattress, muscles taut and trembling while he slams into me with a force that feels almost punishing, still so perfectly right. Each thrust a wonderful brutal rhythm that leaves no room for anything but him. My fingers dig into the sheets, clawing for sanity that’s already long gone, torn away the second his mouth touched my breast.
He stays silent. There is no need—everything he is saying is written in the way his body claims mine. I am a promise he has kept hidden too long, a prayer he has finally allowed himself as a God to answer. His breath hits the hollow of my throat, warm and ragged, while the obscene sound of our bodies colliding fills the surrounding space.
I try to hold onto something—my name, the room, the moment—but I am unraveling completely. My moans are broken things, ripped from my chest. He watches every second, eyes locked on mine, dragging me under with nothing but a look.
“Do you realize how you were perfectly created for me?” he growls into my ear. “Knows this isn’t just lust, little fox—it’s fate. It’s ownership. You’re mine, Mira. Fucking mine. Forever.”
All I can do is nod—wordless, undone—a single tear trails down my cheek, born of pain, pleasure, and something perilously close to joy. Because nothing has ever felt more devastatingly right than being shattered under the weight of his obsession. His words still echo buried inside, thudding through my chest like a second heartbeat—louder, rawer, undeniably his.
My skin hums with every syllable as his teeth grind my collarbone, then sink in just enough to make me cry out. One hand pins my wrists above my head, the other drags down between my ribs and hips.
Each thrust feels like a vow. There is no mercy, just the fever of a man crumbling with purpose. My body strains, desperate to feel him fully, to take more, to give more, until there is nothing left but us—twisted together in this beautiful, violent need.
He watches, those eyes beneath the mask locking on mine, daring me to look away, to deny what this is. Stopping now is not an option. Because this—this is what I have been drawn to my entire life.
“You feel that?” he grits out. “That’s what it means to be mine.”
I do feel it. In my lungs, in my pulse, in the trembling between my legs that’s edging toward the unbearable. My cry tears from my throat—I gasp, my nails dragging down his back as my body pulses around him. He knows exactly what he is doing—how to bring me so close I am trembling, begging, unable to think of anything, but how much more I need.
“This feels so good Xan,” I manage to whisper, cracked and soaked in need. “Don’t you dare stop.”
The sound of our bodies colliding fills the room. My fingers trace the sharp edges of his mask, desperate to see more, to feel more. He pauses, his breath catching. Clearly, my touch has struck something under his skin.
“Please,” I whisper, trembling with an untamable need. “Let me have this. Just once.”
His jaw tightens. I see it—the war behind Xan’s eyes. That pull between instinct and duty, desire and control. His longing is written all over him. Still, he hesitates. Because to lift the mask is to expose more than his face—it’s exposing the man beneath the monster. I slide closer, until my body melts against his, until my breath mingles with the perfume on his neck. I tilt my face up, eyes never leaving his.
“You don’t understand, Xan…” I soften, smoky with emotion. “I need this. I need to feel your mouth against mine like I need air. After everything—after what you have done to me, for me—I want to know the taste of the man who destroyed and rebuilt me all at once.”
He swallows hard, his hands twitching at his sides, torn.
“I’ve kissed lies my whole life,” I continue, bolder now, letting my fingertips graze the bottom of his mask, “but I know yours would be the only truth. And I want to drown in it.”
Still nothing.
I let my lips ghost along his jaw, just below the leather.
“Let me worship you, Xan. Let me know you, not the mask. Just for this moment, I beg you.”
A beat. Another.
Then, with an intense growl, he lifts it—just high enough to set his mouth free. And God, when his lips finally crush into mine, it is not just a kiss—it’s a storm. One I begged for. One I welcome.
His mouth crashes into mine with a force that steals every thought from my mind. No gentleness softens his kiss—only urgency and hunger held back for far too long. His lips are scorching, sculpting mine with a centuries-deep hunger for this contact.
His hand grips the side of my neck, tilting my head just enough to deepen the kiss, his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath my jaw. I melt under his touch, every nerve set ablaze as his tongue claims the corners of my mouth with punishing precision. He kisses as if it is the only language he has ever known, and I understand every word.
I cling to his shoulders, fingers digging into the tense curve of his muscles while our breaths tangle, hot and reckless. I swear I can taste every unspoken thing he has never dared to say. Every truth buried beneath leather and silence.
He doesn’t pull away out of doubt—only to breathe. But even then, his forehead rests against mine, his lips hovering just above mine.
“I swore myself I would never do this,” he murmurs, “but you, little fox… you make it fucking impossible.”
“I don’t want you to resist me,” I say back, my hands sliding to cup his face beneath the mask. “Not when this feels like everything I’ve ever needed.”
He kisses me again. Slower this time—more devout. He’s savoring the sacredness of the moment, because he knows this kiss is a line neither of us will ever come back from.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he asks. “I can feel it… your pussy throbbing around my dick for more.”
Again, all I can do is nod, my voice lost in the tightness of my chest, in the delicious ache building inside me. My hands fist in his hair—anything I can hold onto as I feel myself slipping away. He angles his hips just right, and the friction becomes too much.
“I’m about to come baby,” I cried out softly. “And I want you to come with me, inside me. I want to feel every drop of your cum flooding my thighs.”
Xan lets out a soundless chuckle between his ragged breaths.
“I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way little fox,” he hisses.
A shock of pleasure surges, and I cry out loud as the orgasm tears through me with an intensity I never experienced before. My body bows into his, clenching, falling apart completely in his grasp.
He follows with a guttural moan, deep and animalistic, burying himself to the hilt as he releases his precious cum into me, holding me so tightly it feels like we might fuse together.
As we were never meant to be anything but this. My chest rises and falls in erratic waves. His body is still wrapped around mine, though it is the chaos he has left inside me that holds me prisoner.
I am supposed to feel used, to feel ashamed, even afraid. Still, all I feel is… alive. Split open and stitched back together by the hands of a man who knows exactly where every fracture lies. Julian never touched this part of me—not really. He danced around it, tried to mold it, shame it, silence it.
But Xan? Xan did not ask for permission to enter the dark. He kicked the door off its hinges and made a home in it.
And God help me… I want him to stay.
Xan groans, still catching his air, then glances down at me with a smirk that could cut glass.
“Look at you, little fox. Fucked-out and glowing—I guess I just gave you a whole new definition of pleasure, huh?”
He leans down, pressing a slow, claiming kiss just beneath my jaw.
“And to think, all that time you wasted with Julian and his participation-trophy dick.”
His fingers drift lazily over my hip, possessive even in their tenderness.
“Don’t worry, Mira… I’ll make sure you never forget what love is supposed to feel like.”