Chapter 8 #3
His hands moved from my hips to my waist, turning me with a gentle insistence.
The silken blindfold was still secure, the world a warm, dark void where only his touch and voice existed.
He guided me down, my knees sinking into a pile of furs so deep and soft they seemed to swallow me.
The air was cool against my heated skin.
“On your side,” Virgil murmured, his voice a low vibration against my back as he settled behind me.
His chest was a solid wall of heat, his legs slotting behind mine.
One arm slid beneath my neck, his hand cradling my jaw, tilting my head back against his shoulder.
The other arm wrapped around my ribs, his palm splayed possessively over my sternum.
I was completely enclosed, held in the cage of his body.
I felt the blunt, thick head of his cock nudge against my entrance from behind.
I was still wet, still throbbing from the near-orgasms he’d wrung from me, but this angle was new, deeper.
He didn’t push in. He waited, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Look,” he whispered, though my eyes were covered.
And I saw them. Not with my eyes, but in the dark behind the silk.
The shifting stone walls of the room seemed to solidify into visions.
A scene of me, laughing in a sun-drenched field I’d never visited, a feeling of pure, weightless joy I’d forgotten I craved.
The image was so vivid it stole my breath.
He pressed forward, an inch, filling me slowly.
“You want simplicity,” he narrated, his voice a hypnotic rasp.
“A life without the constant calculus of risk.” Another inch, a stretching, perfect burn.
The vision shifted: me standing at a cliff’s edge, wind whipping my hair, the terrifying, exhilarating urge to jump.
His hips met the backs of my thighs, and he was fully seated, so deep I gasped.
He held there, buried inside me, his body trembling with the effort of his stillness.
“But you also want the fall,” he said, and his arm tightened around me.
He began to move, a slow, dragging withdrawal followed by a firm, punctuating thrust. Each push forward coincided with a new tableau.
Me, screaming my anger into a storm, finally letting it out.
Me, curled in a silent room, the profound peace of being utterly alone.
His pace remained relentless, a steady, deep rhythm that stroked a place inside me that made my toes curl.
“You fear being known,” he bit out, his thrusts gaining force, “and you are terrified of never being seen.”
The pleasure was a coil, winding tighter with every word, every perfect, penetrating glide of his cock.
His mouth was on my neck, sucking, biting with just enough edge to make me cry out.
His hand left my ribs, sliding down over my belly, through the damp curls, finding my clit.
The touch was electric. I jerked in his hold. “Virgil—”
“Watch,” he commanded, his fingers circling the swollen bud in time with his thrusts.
The visions turned carnal. My secret, shameful fantasies given glorious form.
Me, pinned beneath him in a public place.
Me, on my knees before him. Me, begging.
The images weren’t frightening; they were beautiful in their honesty, crystalized by his voice and the brutal, wonderful friction of his body claiming mine.
“I see all of it,” he groaned, his control fraying into ragged breaths.
“Every silent want. Every hidden fear. And I want to give you all of it, Anna. The peace and the storm.”
His fingers worked me faster. The dual sensations—the deep, internal pounding and the focused, external pressure—drove me up a cliff I couldn’t climb down from.
My body tightened, every muscle singing with tension.
The coil snapped. My climax tore through me without warning, a violent, shattering wave that blurred the visions into a cascade of pure, white sensation.
I screamed, my back arching, my inner muscles clamping rhythmically around his shaft.
He cursed, a raw, guttural sound. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming hard, frantic drives as he chased his own release.
His arm locked like a steel band around me, his face buried in my hair.
“Now,” he snarled, and I felt the hot, sudden rush of his come inside me, pulsing with each final, jerking thrust. We collapsed together into the furs, a tangled, sweating heap.
His softening cock slipped from my body, followed by a trickle of his release, warm and slick on the back of my thigh.
He was heavy, breathing harshly against my shoulder.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our lungs fighting for air.
Then, with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the possession of moments before, he reached up and untied the blindfold.
The silk slithered away. Light, soft and golden, flooded my vision.
I blinked, my eyes watering. The room was no longer a shifting labyrinth of stone.
It was breathtaking. The walls gleamed like polished amber, shot through with veins of deep gold.
The fountain was a centerpiece of carved crystal, water dancing in a silent, intricate melody.
The fabrics draped around us were rich velvets and silks in jewel tones.
It was a temple, stable and radiant, a physical manifestation of the pleasure still humming in my veins.
Virgil’s hand came up, brushing my cheek.
“Look,” he said again, softly. My gaze drifted, still hazy with spent passion, and caught on a large, gilded mirror framed in ornate scrollwork across the room.
It reflected our tangled forms on the furs, my pale skin against the dark pelts, his powerful body curved around mine.
My breath hitched. In the reflection, his eyes weren’t their usual stormy grey.
They were pools of endless black, no white, no iris.
And the angles of his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the high sweep of his cheekbone—were just slightly off, subtly inhuman, as if the mirror captured a truth the living light softened.
A quiet reminder. The beauty surrounding me, the solidity of the floor beneath us, the profound intimacy of what we’d just shared—it was all real.
And so was he. Fundamentally, beautifully other.
I turned my head, seeking his real face beside me.
His eyes were closed, his expression sated, peaceful.
The familiar grey flickered open, meeting my stare.
He saw my understanding. He didn’t flinch from it.
He simply pressed a kiss to my temple, his lips warm against my skin.
I looked back at the mirror. The reflection now showed only a man and a woman, spent and quiet in a beautiful room.
But the echo of what I’d seen remained, a shadow in the crystal clarity, the enduring mystery of the anchor I had chosen to hold.