"Does it hurt?" he asks, teasing one inch, two, before slamming home again.
Tears roll down my cheeks. "Yes."
"Good."
Lucien fucks me with the single-minded devotion of a dying man hunting the gods. As if his very existence depends on it. Through the glass, I see him watch every nuance, every detail of every expression.
We don't have sex. We become it.
Not the tender or rough, fleeting kind humans like to place names to, but something truly elemental. And for the first time, I think sex is something that should indeed be sacred. Because no one should have this kind of power of anyone.
Because when he's in me, I feel the space around us changing, charging, like dark alchemy, where the more he touches me, the more I need him to. Having sex with Lucien sates my needs. Fuels it. Sates it. Ignites it. Sates it. It feeds the monster inside, calms it, encourages it and then leashes it into submission. It's a never ending cycle.
