YAKUZA'S DIRGE

🩸 YAKUZA'S DIRGE-
"A dirge is a funeral hymn, and his love was a slow, brutal mourning-not for her death, but her freedom."

"Do you know why I keep you locked up?" Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled against his chest - hesitantly, reverently - and oh god. The feel of him. Hard. Unforgiving. A wall of heat under her trembling hands. His chest was broad, every muscle taut beneath the thin shirt, his pecs shifting as he breathed - not shallowly, but deeply. Controlled. His teeth grazed her cheek. A bite. Gentle. Carnal.

Her lips parted. A broken breath fell from her. Then a whisper - from him. "Hmm?" She shook her head. Too slow. Too dazed. His hand slipped lower, finally, cupping her waist - his palm large enough to cage her, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of her ribs while his other arm remained hooked around her back. Not pinning. Holding. Pulling.

She was caged. Held flush to him. Nothing between them but her open robe and his clothed chest. But even then, the heat bled through. He bent again - lower this time. His lips kissed the corner of her jaw. Not sweetly. Possessively. Then he whispered something so sinful, so deliberate, it felt like it was made of oil and ash and honey: "Because if even one man saw you like this... he'd forget his god. He'd fuck his name out of your mouth and never ask if you were promised."

Her thighs trembled. Her hand fisted in the fabric at his chest - not to resist. To survive the feeling. He dragged his lips to her jaw again. Her ear. He didn't press them to her skin. He simply hovered. Teased. Waited. She could barely breathe. Her body shook in his hands, her inner thighs slick with her own arousal, every nerve burning like she was being readied for slaughter. Then-her voice. Small. Too soft for anyone else to hear. But he was not anyone.

"...But I already attracted the worst kind." His head stilled. Eyes lowered to her again. She swallowed. Then added-"Didn't I?"