She Touched Him Like a Memory

Then she dropped to her knees.

With trembling hands, she undid the towel from his waist. It fell to the cold floor like something sacrificed. Her fingers hovered at his skin, and when they touched him, it was like fire kissing ice. He felt her breathe — shallow, rapid, unsteady — and yet she moved with purpose, driven by something older than reason.

He reached for her shoulder, unsure whether to hold her or push her away.

But then the air shifted. The weight of their recent argument crashed through him. The tone she'd used. The way she had shut him out. And now this? Was it reconciliation — or control?

Her eyes flickered. Vulnerability? Or performance?

He pulled back — barely. Enough to breathe. To think.

But she didn't stop.

Her hand wrapped around him like it belonged there.

He gasped. His body betrayed him. His head snapped back, a moan caught halfway between relief and despair.

It wasn't just his flesh reacting — it was the ghost of an old hunger waking. A part of him she'd once broken and now stitched back together with each motion.

Her hand moved faster. Possessive. Claiming. His legs trembled beneath him. His soul spiraled into her rhythm.

She stared up at him — eyes wild, mouth parted in something between reverence and revenge.

He gritted his teeth. His moans bled into the thick air.

Then came the flood.

Hot. Violent. Unrelenting.

It coated her face, ran over her lips, traced her skin in slick lines that shimmered in the dimness. Her tongue darted out — greedy, desperate — and her fingers danced over her own trembling flesh, lost in some ritual only she understood.

Another wave hit.

His release struck her chest this time, spilling like molten glass, coating her collarbones, dripping to the stone floor like holy oil spilled from a corrupted altar.

"Ooz."

The sound pulsed through the air, wet and alive.

And then something inside her snapped.

Her hand moved to her own skin, her own warmth. Her breath grew sharp, ragged. Her fingers sought the place no one else could reach, not like he had — not Desmond. Someone else.

Her ex.

The man before the marriage. The one who ruined her for all others.

He came flooding back — not his face, never his face — just the feel of him. The way he tore through her like a storm, moved with cruel precision, made her feel like her body had purpose.

She whispered into the air, "fuck me harder…"

And suddenly it wasn't her fingers anymore. It was his cock — thick, brutal, unapologetic. Her body bucked. She whispered his memory into existence.

Then she gasped. Fluid splashed out — hot, slick, musky. It coated her thighs. The scent of sex flooded the room like incense. Her eyes rolled back. Her hands returned. She shoved them inside herself with frantic force.

No rhythm now.

Only need.

Only memory.

Only ghost.

She came — hard, loud, like something cracking open.

Her body collapsed. Spent. Soaked. Real.

For a long time, she lay on the cold floor. Breathing steam. Listening to silence. Listening to her soul drift away like smoke.

Then…

A sound outside.

Clink. Bang.

The horses stomped the ground. Pebbles flew. The air sparked with tension.

She turned her head toward him — her boss — who lay nearby.

But he was rising now.

He touched the small iron handle of the cart — and the world changed.

A vibration rippled through the ground. The horses froze. The trees beyond the gate stirred as if summoned from sleep. Leaves lifted. Dust spun like ash in air.

He turned to Eva.

And smiled.

Not kindly.

With purpose.

The black gate groaned open — not randomly, but rhythmically, like a song made of iron and time. A chant. A warning.

The trees bent toward him like old gods, their branches dripping with fruit that wasn't food — but memory, prophecy, fate.

The gate and the trees were married — protector and witness. The carvings on the gate pulsed with color, reacting to his presence like they knew him. Earth-green and rust-gold shimmered through the iron.

"Sir… I'm heading to the garden," Eva whispered, trying to escape the weight of what was happening.

But her voice hung in the air too long.

Like a prayer that came too late.

And still — he smiled.

Her steps faded behind him with a soft bounce, her hair catching the breeze as it filtered in from the garden. Still, he did not turn. Her parting words echoed like the last notes of a spell, and then—silence.

He raised his right hand. Calmly. Precisely.

Two fingers—index and middle—rose in a practiced, effortless motion. The others curled inward, the ring finger brushing against the pad of his thumb. A command disguised as elegance. To anyone watching, it was barely a gesture. But to those who knew, it was a silent dismissal. A signal to the unseen: All is under control. You are released.

"I need time…"

The words barely brushed the air, spoken as he stepped past the gate's shadow. Yet something in them clung, staining the air like ink dropped into water. A language without voice, readable only to those attuned to the subtle pulse of his mind.

His staff struck the diamond-patterned floor with steady rhythm—tap… tap… tap—each strike leaving an invisible signature. To ordinary eyes, they meant nothing. But in the dark, they glowed faintly, lines of energy lingering like veins beneath stone.

Before ascending the stairs, his gaze lifted.

The walls were lined with medals and photographs—milestones, victories, polished testaments to a life that no longer felt entirely his. But his eyes skipped past them all. Toward the one.

The picture.

It hung slightly lower than the others, but somehow towered above them all. It wasn't just a portrait—it watched. It radiated weight. Like something imprisoned behind glass, not captured. As if the soul inside it had been sealed mid-breath, trapped just before it could speak.

He stared. And it stared back.

The energy shifted. The silence wasn't hollow—it was charged. His thoughts slowed. The stairwell, the corridor, the medals—all fell away. There was only the portrait. And its whisper.

"I wish you were here."

The words didn't echo. They settled.

He tried to blink. Couldn't. The gaze from the portrait held him in place, humming just above human hearing—a frequency only grief could unlock.

"Only you could have helped me... when I almost got taken by those things."

His eyes closed, but the memory opened wide. The sensation of unconsciousness in the cart. The suffocating pressure. The sense of something ancient wrapping around his soul. He had pretended strength in front of Eva. Pretended calm.

But in truth, he had felt like prey.

A flicker of movement—his own—snapped him out of it. He reached the top step, breath caught in his throat.

He whirled.

The fine hairs on his neck lifted. Not from cold. From presence.

Nothing behind him. No one. But the feeling hadn't lied. He wasn't alone—not in any way that counted.

'If only you were here…'