Page 37 of The Sin Binder's Descent
I know this feeling. The signature of Lust. The slow-spreading golden drug of it, soaked into bone and blood like it belongs. He’s not pushing it on me. But it’s there—subtle, threaded through the space between our mouths, an offering shaped like instinct.
And I can’t do this with it hanging between us.
I pull back—not abruptly, not with rejection. Just enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to put thought between body and reaction.
His eyes open. His lips are still parted, a question hovering there that he doesn’t ask. He looks at me like I broke something. Like he doesn’t understand why I would stop when the moment was finally soft enough to sink into.
“I can feel it,” I say, voice low but steady. I’m not accusing. I’m not angry. But I’m not letting it go unspoken. “Your power. You’re using it on me.”
He freezes. Just for a second. A blink of disbelief, a flicker of self-doubt that flares and dies before I can chase it.
“I thought it would help,” he says, and the words aren’t defensive—they’re small. Exposed.
“I know.” I press my palm gently to his chest, grounding us both, but not inviting more. “And it does. That’s the problem.”
He doesn’t move.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit. “What you can do. The way you make people want. It’s not manipulation, not when you use it like this. But it’s not me, either. It’s not what I want.”
His brow furrows, and I can see the ache behind his silence, the instinct to disappear beneath that power, to retreat into the version of himself that always knew how to give pleasure without needing to ask for it. Caspian—the man I met when I first stepped into this cursed academy—was made of confidence and grin-laced sin. But this man? This one in front of me now? He’s stripped bare of all that polish. And he doesn’t know how to move without it.
He nods once—sharply, like a blade drawn against his own chest. He doesn’t say he understands. But he steps back. Just a breath of space. And I feel it instantly.
The magic is gone.
When he leans down to kiss me, it’s softer than before—too soft. He still doesn’t know where to put his hands. One of them drifts toward my hip, hovers like he’s unsure he has the right. The other curls near my ribs, his thumb brushing over skin like he’s expecting it to flinch. His body moves like he’s holding back—not from lust, not from desire—but from himself. Like he doesn’t trust what will happen if he lets go. Like he’s afraid of what he’ll feel. Or worse—what he won’t.
The kiss deepens, but it’s clumsy now. Our teeth knock once. His jaw works against mine with effort, not instinct. And I can feel it in his body—the hesitation, the weight of shame threaded into every breath.
This isn’t working.
So I move.
He lets me push him back onto the bed without protest, but I can feel the stiffness in his limbs—the resistance he won’t voice. His body is braced beneath me like he’s expecting pain. Not from me. From the moment. From himself.
I swing my leg over him, straddling his hips, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me. Just watches, wide-eyed, mouth parted, barely breathing. I peel my shirt off slowly—not to tease, but to set the pace. To show him I’m here. Present. Awake.
His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do.
I guide them. One at a time. Place them on my thighs.
“Don’t use it,” I murmur, meeting his eyes. “Just be here.”
He nods. Swallows. His palms flex slightly against my skin, like he’s trying to memorize the heat of me without burning.
I lean down, kiss him—slow, coaxing—and he kisses me back, but he’s cautious. Our mouths move out of sync. Too much thought behind it. His tongue brushes mine, then pulls back like he’s second-guessing it.
When I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, he gasps—sharp and surprised. Already hard, but tense. Like he didn’t believe this was really going to happen.
I shift my hips, line us up, and sink down on him in one slow, steady motion. His eyes roll back. His fingers dig into my thighs. A groan claws its way out of him—low and helpless.
I pause once he’s fully inside me, giving him a second to adjust. His chest is rising fast, his jaw clenched tight. He looks overwhelmed, like sensation is pouring through him too fast to process.
I start to move.
Small rolls of my hips, letting the friction build between us, grounding myself in the rhythm. At first, he doesn’t meet it. His hands stay tight on my legs, not guiding, not exploring. Just holding on. He’s not present yet. He’s still watching it happen instead of being in it.
I place my hands on his chest, lean forward, let my body press flush to his. My breasts slide against his skin. My breath fans over his throat. I feel him pulse inside me.
