Page 7 of Ascension

“And I’ll let you do it again,” he murmured.

I paused. Not what I expected, definitely not what I’d prepared for.

“You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He laughed again. “I’m fucking obsessed, Calla. You stroked an orgasm out of me without my dick ever being touched, and I loved every fucking second.”

Something tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Come here.”

I guided him into my arms, cradling his head to my chest as I sank into the velvet loveseat in the corner. He let himself go limp against me, his cheek pressed to the curve of my breast, his arms wrapping around my waist like he’d just found a soft place to land.

“You okay?” I murmured.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “You got a nigga fucked up right now, I can’t front.”

“You said you didn’t want safe,” I whispered into hishair.

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t, hell, I still don’t. But I want real, Calla, even the messy parts you’re afraid to show others, you will show me.”

I held him tighter, my fingers gliding over his marked skin, reaching for the shea balm. I worked it into the welts with a care that only came from knowing pain like a language. His eyes fluttered closed.

“You gone have me strung out over your fine ass,” he whispered. “You touched me like you knew exactly what I needed.”

“I did,” I said quietly. “Because I needed it too.”

He tilted his head up to look at me, and for the first time, his expression wasn’t playful or shocked; instead, it was filled with adoration and worship.

“You’re not just The Black Dahlia to me anymore.”

I froze.

“You’re Calla. And I want all of you.”

And for the first time, I let myself believe he meant it.

I should be asleep.

But instead, I’m lying across my bed, drenched in sweat, my dick stiff in my grip, aching for a release that feels as much emotional as it is physical. The sheets are twisted around my calves, and the only light in the room is the soft bronze glow from the lamp on my nightstand, casting long shadows across my chest and the palm that’s working me slow.

I can’t stop thinking about her.

Calla.

No, The Black Dahlia.

Except now I know better.

Now I know they’re the same woman.

And I haven’t been right since.

I stroke slower, squeezing at the base and dragging my fist upward, imagining it’s her hand, firm, confident, unhurried. The way she touched me after. Once the restraints were off. Once the adrenaline faded and my body was spent, used up in the most perfect fucking way.

I’d just taken the strap for her. She’d flogged me until I cried out, my hips shaking, my skin lit up, and begging. Each strike had unraveled me, making me forget my own name and remember hers. I took every inch of her withtrembling limbs and a thank-you on my tongue.

And then she wrapped me in a soft blanket, cradled me in her lap like I hadn’t just spent the last hour reduced to nothing but sensation and obedience.

Her hand stroked through my hair as I came back down to earth, my breathing slow, chest warm with something more profound than pleasure. I rested my cheek against her thigh, eyes closed, body limp.