Page 160 of Ashen Torment

I stare at him as he moves toward the door, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

“Evander—”

“Enjoy it, Lord Vasiliev Ashford, it was only a hand.”

The sound of the words sticks to my skin, echoing between my ribs. I watch him turn.

The door snaps shut behind him.

I stand there, back pressed against the wall, hands half-extended, suspended in an unfinished gesture that will never find completion. My breath comes in fits and starts, my chest rises and falls as if I had run for miles, yet I haven’t moved a step.

I should have, instead. Moved and taken him.

Take him.

Take him and bring him back here.

My trousers still lie lowered, my cock taut, rebellious against the bunched fabric. The cold of the wall stings my back, but my body burns from within. The veins under my skin pulse, seeking something that will no longer come. Another caress, another shiver, another end.

I have never felt such intensity before.

I lower myself slowly, knees bent, head resting against the wall, chin grazing my chest. I breathe in snatches, absorbing the scent enveloping me: mine, his, skin, marble, sweat, and sex.

The seed, still warm, glues my skin, the shirt sticking to my belly irritates and inflames at the same time. My eyes fall on my hands. My fingers tremble slightly, sticky, wet, dirty.

And it isn’t enough.

It isn’t nearly enough.

I stand back up slowly, my length still pulsing, obstinate, refusing to surrender.

“Fuck—”

I rid myself of my trousers entirely, letting them fall to the floor. The cold air hits my thighs, my hips, my belly, and that chill, which should placate me, extinguish the fire under my skin, only makes it crack, like embers beneath the ash.

I cross the room naked. The floor is hard, I lift my hand and run it through my hair, damp with sweat, brushing it from my forehead.

What was that emptiness in his eyes when he left?

My fingers slide slow, tired.

“This is not what I wanted.”

I look around. The workbench is there, motionless as if nothing had happened. Upon it, a leather glove. The one Evander had picked up. The one he had touched.

I seize it. My fingers rub their tips over the smooth surface, still lukewarm with the heat I imagine to be his. I squeeze it in my fist and approach the window that remained open. The damp air enters along with the sound of the rain. I lean my hands on either side of the window and tilt my head out just enough to be hit by the wet wind.

“Laurence!” my voice shatters the silence of the room.

After a span of time I could not quantify, Laurence enters the room, out of breath. He scrutinizes me, and when he notices the condition I am in, his green eyes widen slightly.

“Has Viscount Rochefort left?” I ask, my voice taut, the glove still clenched in my fist.

“Yes, sir.”

I slam a hand onto the table, the wood vibrates under my strength. “How long ago?”

He hesitates, drawing back, his hands moving nervously in front of him.