Page 62 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

My fingers clutch the sheets, my breath hitching as he moves, his lips grazing the nape of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. The closeness is almost too much, his body pressed so tightly against mine that I can feel the thud of his heartbeat, a mirror to my own.

The pleasure builds, a steady crescendo that makes my vision blur. My moans are soft, fractured, swallowed by the quiet of the loft. His hand slides up my body, cupping my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple until it hardens under his touch.

The sensation is electric, a spark that ignites the fire in my core, and I arch back against him, my body chasing the release that’s so close. When it hits, it’s a quiet explosion, my body trembling as waves of pleasure ripple through me, my breath catching in a soft cry.

He follows, his groan muffled against my shoulder, his body shuddering as he spills into me, the heat of him grounding me in the moment.

But he’s not done.

He pulls out, his hands gentle as he turns me to face him, guiding me to straddle his lap. My legs are shaky, my body still humming from the aftershocks, but I settle over him, my hands resting on his chest.

His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s something raw there, something that makes my heart stutter—a need that feels like it could swallow us both. He guides himself to my entrance, and I sink down onto him, gasping at the fullness, the way he stretches me.

My hands brace against his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I begin to move, slow at first, then faster, finding a rhythm that feels like a dance between desperation and restraint. His hands grip my hips, not controlling but steadying, letting me set the pace.

The friction is intense, each movement sending sparks through me, building a new wave of pleasure.

His breath is ragged, his eyes half-lidded but never leaving mine, as if he’s afraid to look away.

I lean forward, my lips brushing his, not quite a kiss but a shared breath, a moment of connection that feels more intimate than the act itself.

My climax builds again, sharper this time, and when it crashes over me, it’s with a cry that I can’t hold back, my body trembling as I clench around him. He follows almost immediately, his hands tightening on my hips, his groan a low, broken sound that echoes in the quiet.

We collapse together, my body draped over his, our breaths harsh and uneven.

He shifts us, rolling me onto my back again, but this time he doesn’t enter me.

Instead, he kneels between my legs, his hands gentle as they trace the lines of my body, lingering on the curve of my thigh, the dip of my waist.

His lips follow, kissing a slow path across my stomach, my ribs, my collarbone, as if he’s mapping me, claiming me in a way that’s softer but no less possessive. When he finally settles beside me, I curl into him, my cheek resting against his bare shoulder, his hand tangling in my hair.

His other arm stretches behind his head, his breathing slow, steady, unreadable. The silence is heavy, filled with the weight of everything we haven’t said. I should let it stay quiet, should keep the fragile peace between us, but the words slip out before I can stop them.

“I don’t think you trust me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, a confession that feels like a wound.

He doesn’t flinch or turn toward me. His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice is flat, final, like a door slamming shut somewhere deep in the house. “That’s not the problem.”

No explanation, no softness, just the weight of his words hanging between us.

I close my eyes, my cheek still pressed against his shoulder, his hand still in my hair.

The city hums outside, its lights flickering through the curtains, but in here, it’s just two broken things, tangled in a web of need and doubt, with no way to untangle ourselves without tearing something apart.

***

I don’t bring up the summit again.

I don’t remind him that Vienna represents more than a podium, and it represents memory. The version of me I’d almost buried: public, articulate, wanted. A woman with sharp questions and unapologetic answers. A woman who used to know what she believed in.

Lucian has tried to seal that part of me off like a drafty room in a house he wanted to preserve.

But it is warming again.

I can feel it flickering back to life. Not loud, not demanding. But steady. Like a heartbeat rediscovered under frost.

I start making space for it.

I reread old essays I’d written. I open the file on my laptop titled “Unpublished.” I begin sketching thoughts again—about autonomy, silence, surveillance dressed as safety. And this time, I don’t delete them.

Lucian hasn’t forbidden me from thinking.

He doesn’t have to.

He’s used to controlling through silence. A look. A touch. A well-placed “no.”

But silence is a two-way mirror. If you stare long enough, it reflects.

And I’m learning to hold my own quiet in return.

***

At night, he still touches me like I’m precious.

He holds me close as if I might vanish.

But his gaze drifts more. His mind travels elsewhere. The man beside me is present, yes—but only in body.

Something in him has gone colder. Not distant, exactly. Just…detached. As if he fears that if he stays too close, I’ll see the monster he believes himself to be.

But I already have.

Not in blood or cruelty or confession, but in how much he refuses to tell me.

And still, I stay.

Still, I curl next to him.

Still, I whisper things I’m not sure he deserves to hear.

Because part of me still believes in him.

But a different part that’s new, or maybe very old, is starting to believe in me again.

And I don’t feel guilty about keeping secrets anymore.

Not the message from the whistleblower.

Not the memory fragments resurfacing.

Not the summit email still sitting in my inbox, untouched but not forgotten.

Some truths don’t belong in shared spaces.

Some truths belong to the woman I’m becoming again—carefully, quietly.

Underneath his control.

Alongside his obsession.

But not defined by it.