Chapter 92 Wholly
CHAPTER 92: Wholly
Vera
The sound of the buckle was loud in the quiet room. He pulled down his zipper and shifted, pushing his trousers and briefs down just enough to free himself. Then he was back over me, the hard, pulsing hot length of him pressing against my inner thigh. I gasped at the feel of him. He was thick, velvety steel, and leaking moisture at the tip. I had seen and felt him inside me before, but I still felt a wave of anxiety as though it were the first time.
He reached between us, guiding himself to my entrance, all the while looking in my eyes. We held each other's gaze, but not one word passed between us. Then I felt the blunt head pressed against my entrance, and my breath caught.
His forehead dropped to mine, his breathing uneven. His eyes were squeezed shut, almost like he was afraid of me seeing what was reflected in them, his jaw clenched tight like he was in pain.
“Open your eyes,” I whispered.
He did. The look in them stole my breath. It was hunger, yes, a ravenous, devouring thing. A thrill ran through me… he still wanted me.
But beneath the desire was a torment so deep it startled me.
“Tell me you want this,” he ground out. “Now. Say it.”
I was touched. He was making sure that this was my choice, even when it was quite obvious. He was giving me a choice, unlike what I had experienced in the past.
Hesitantly, I reached out, my palm cupping his cheek, a tear slid from my eyes into my hairline. He tensed under my touch, but he didn't pull away.
“Yes. I want this. I want you.”
He pushed in.
The stretch was exquisite. A full, burning ache that made me cry out. He was so careful, so slow, sliding in inch by devastating inch, until he was buried to the hilt. He stopped, his whole body trembling with the great effort of holding still.
We were joined. There is no space between us, no past, no other man. There was only this union, this terrible, beautiful truth.
“You feel…” He couldn't finish. He dropped his head to the crook of my neck, his breath hot on my skin and my hands caressed the back of his head and nape. “God, Vera.”
My fingers trailed to his shoulders, and I braced them there. “Move.”
He began to move. This time, there was no frantic pace. It’s a deep, rolling rhythm, a claiming that felt less like taking, and more like giving… a communion between two souls. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony—each thrust a glorious homecoming. His hips moved against mine with a primal grace, the slap of skin a quiet, wet counterpoint to our uneven breaths.
He shifted positions, hooking my legs over his arms. This position opened me wider, allowing him to sink deeper into me, touching places I didn't even know existed. The new angle brushed a spot so deep inside me that I saw stars. I clawed at his back, the fabric of his shirt bunching under my fingers.
“Take it off,” I pleaded, needing to feel his skin.
He barely stopped. He released one of my legs, and bracing himself on one arm, he ripped his shirt, the buttons flying off in all directions and clattering to the floor, and tossed it aside.
Finally, his chest was against mine, skin to skin, sweat-slick and hot. The feel of him, the solid muscle and the smooth glistening chest was a revelation. I ran my hands over the planes of his back, feeling the shift and play of muscle with every thrust.
He shuddered, and his mouth found mine in a kiss that was all tongue and desperate heat. His rhythm faltered, growing more urgent.
“I can’t… I need…” he was losing his careful control. Being careful and slow has been very difficult for him.
The reverent lover was being swallowed by the hungry man.
“You can let go,” I gave him permission.
His thrusts become harder, deeper, driving the very breath from my lungs. His thrusts were so powerful that the bedframe creaked in protest.
It was what I needed. This raw, unfiltered wanting. Proof that his hunger for me had not been replaced with revulsion.
I met him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes,” I hissed. “Like that. Don’t stop.”
Holding my gaze, his hand slid between us, his thumb finding my clit again and he began to rub. The pressure was perfect, rough and insistent, matching the pounding rhythm of his hips. My second orgasm began to build, faster and sharper than the first, coiling tight at the base of my spine.
“Come with me,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Look at me and come with me.”
His eyes are black with need, his face a mask of tormented pleasure. I held his gaze as the world splintered. My climax ripped through me, a violent, consuming inferno that clenched around him, milking him, sucking him deeper.
He growled, a raw, broken sound, and I felt him pulse inside me, hot and endless, as he coated my wall with hot essence, his own release tearing through him.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. We were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged gasps.
The room smelled of sex, salt and us. It hung thickly in the air.
I expected that he'd withdraw from me, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried inside me, his face pressed into my neck. I could feel the frantic hammer of his heart against my chest, slowing gradually. Slowly, my hands drifted over his back, soothing, memorizing.
After a long time, he shifted his weight to the side, taking me with him, still keeping us joined. I felt him twitch inside me and I gasped.
“Don't you need to—”
“Don't talk,” he hushed in a heavy voice.
I obeyed, all too willingly. He tucked me against his body, my back to his front, one arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his hand splayed over my stomach, his warm breath fanning my nape.
We didn’t speak. There were no words for this.
The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the mansion waking up.
In the quietness, reality crept in. That night in La Notte. My crime. The pregnancy. The contract. His vengeance. It all waited outside this room… outside this bed.
But here, now, with his flesh burrowed deep inside me and pressed against mine, his scent in my lungs, I felt clean. I felt claimed. I felt, for the first time since the night, like I might belong somewhere. To someone.
His breathing slowed, and his arm tightened around me. An indication that he had fallen asleep, and a silent acknowledgement. A promise, or a threat, I didn’t know.
As I laid in his arms listening to the sound of his breathing, and fighting the heavy weight of lethargy that was attempting to drag me under, I realised I had already wholly submitted myself to Silas—body, soul…and heart.
I closed my eyes. The guilt will come. The status quo will resume, for both of us. But not yet. Not now.