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(CONTINUING FROM MY TT POST)The words slipped from the mask ..
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 00:21:49 +0000 UTC(CONTINUING FROM MY TT POST)
The words slipped from the mask like smoke—rough, final, and strangely intimate.
“You left the door open.”
Taylor’s pulse fluttered at her throat like a moth against glass. The chill of the room contrasted sharply with the warmth pouring off his body, his presence swallowing the space around her like a shadow with weight.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
His gloved fingers moved with purpose now, sliding down her waist, then curling around the hem of her robe. A small tug. A silent question.
Taylor’s breath caught in her throat. She gave the smallest nod.
That was all it took.
With agonizing slowness, the silk unraveled from her body like a secret being unwrapped. The robe whispered to the floor, leaving her bathed in moonlight, vulnerable yet unashamed. His masked face remained still, unreadable—but the silence between them grew heavier, charged.
He didn’t touch her immediately. Instead, he looked—really looked—as if memorizing her shape, her curves, her defiance trembling beneath anticipation. Every second stretched thin with tension, like the space before lightning strikes.
Then he moved.
His hands—strong, deliberate—brushed the sides of her thighs, traveling upward, tracing the outline of who she was like an artist sketching from instinct. Each stroke was a statement, not a question. Possession dressed in reverence.
Her fingers found the fabric of his coat, clutching it, grounding herself in the firmness beneath it. The mystery of the mask should’ve unsettled her—but instead, it heightened everything. She imagined the expression beneath it. Imagined heat in the eyes she couldn’t see.
And he made sure she felt every inch of him without ever rushing—his touch a slow invasion, like ink seeping into untouched paper. She leaned into it, into him, tilting her head back when his mouth—hidden beneath the mask—hovered near the skin of her neck. She couldn’t see his lips, but she felt the breath, hot and uneven, tasting her before claiming her.
Taylor gasped when his grip tightened—firm, but never cruel. Like he knew exactly how far to go, and exactly how far she’d let him.
He pressed her back against the counter, his hips catching hers in a quiet collision that made her legs tremble. Their rhythm wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate. Like worship. Like hunger restrained by ritual.
Outside, branches scratched against the windows like they wanted in on the moment. The wind screamed. The house creaked. But inside that kitchen, time fractured and bent around them.
She arched into him. He held her there.
Her breath hitched again. His fingers sank deeper.
And when she whispered his name—though she didn’t know what it was—he answered not with words, but with the full weight of his body, his touch, and the unrelenting tension finally breaking in a wave of heat and surrender.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel.
It was something other.
When it was over, he stood there—still masked, still silent.
Taylor’s body pulsed with aftershocks. Her hands rested on his chest, the thud of his heart matching hers like a mirrored drum.
“I didn’t lock the door,” she said softly, almost smiling. “Maybe I wanted you to come in.”
He stepped back. Said nothing.
And then, just before disappearing into the dark again, his voice—hoarse and low—cut through the quiet.
“You’ll leave it open next time too.”
And she knew she would.
