CHAPTER 132: CHAPTER 132- CRUXIUS AND YTRISIA’S BOND

The soft click of the door echoed behind them, sealing them into the dim room. The lights were low, the walls smooth and sterile, the air still — too still.

Ytrisia stepped forward, her heels clicking on cold stone. Her purple latex suit clung to every inch of her — thick, skintight, molded to her like a second skin. Her figure was mature, full, impossible to ignore. Hips wide, waist tight, breasts heavy and high, the latex catching the light as she moved. She looked around, slowly.

"This place..." Her voice was soft, almost casual. "Doesn’t it feel too clean? Like someone wiped it down to hide something."

Behind her, Cruxius said nothing. He was staring. His eyes followed the way the suit hugged her ass, how her thighs pressed together. He breathed in — slowly, like he was trying to keep control — but he didn’t hide what he was doing.

Then, quiet. "I’m sorry."

She stopped. Her body stiffened for a second, like the words touched something raw inside her. She turned slowly. Her purple hair slid over her shoulder, falling across her cheek. Her violet eyes narrowed.

"What did you say?"

Cruxius rubbed the back of his neck. His voice was low, almost tired. "I’m sorry for being like this. I tried. I really did. To be what you deserved. But every time I think I can... something inside just breaks. And I go back to chasing, flirting, fucking it up."

She crossed her arms. The latex stretched over her chest, pulling tight. She didn’t speak.

Inside her head, it was loud.

’You’ve said this before. Every time. This is what you do. You break something, then come back looking like you’re the one bleeding.’

Cruxius kept going. "It’s not that I didn’t care about you. I just... my body doesn’t stop. My libido—it’s like it runs me. I try to fight it but I lose. I end up in someone else’s bed and I hate myself after."

’No, you don’t. You never did. You smiled. You smirked when they clung to you. You only hate it when you’re alone again.’

Ytrisia stared at him. Her face didn’t move, but something inside her cracked a little.

"And you think that justifies cheating?" she said quietly.

"I’m not justifying it," he said. He stepped closer. His eyes locked with hers, then dropped — slowly — to her chest, then her hips, then back. "I’m saying maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I had what I needed. If I didn’t have to seek it somewhere else."

’This again. This sick twist of need. Like I didn’t give enough. Like it’s my fault you couldn’t keep it in your pants.’

But still... part of her remembered the nights. The way he’d held her like she was his whole world. The way his voice sounded in the dark. She didn’t want it back — she couldn’t — but that part of her hadn’t died. It just stayed quiet. Waiting.

"You could’ve taken something," she said. "Inhibitors, suppressants—"

"I tried." His voice dropped. "They shut everything down. Even who I am. It’s not about wanting everyone. It’s about needing it... from you."

She froze.

’No. No, don’t do this. Don’t pull me in. Don’t use that voice. You always did this. You twist things until I can’t breathe.’

He looked at her, not blinking. Not smirking. Just... hungry. Not for food. Not even for pleasure. For access.

Ytrisia’s eyes lowered. Her chest felt tight inside the suit. Her thoughts were a mess. She hated this. Hated how he got under her skin.

’You’re stronger than this. You’re not some weak woman who breaks when he looks at you.’

But still... she whispered:

"...Can I help in something?"

Her words were barely there, fragile. They hung in the air like something that could break if touched too hard.

Cruxius didn’t speak immediately. His eyes held hers for a long moment — not sharp, not cold — just... focused. His hand moved slowly, without suddenness. He raised it, stretched forward, and gently took hers. His palm was warm.

He guided her hand without a word, placing it on the center of his chest — over the steady thud of his heart.

"Yes," he whispered. "You can."

She felt the heat of him beneath her fingers. His body was lean, built, real — not like the men she fought or trained with, but steady. Human. Vulnerable in all the wrong and right ways.

’He’s doing it again. This... softness. This careful act. As if he wants me, not just my body. But those eyes... they never lie.’

Cruxius’s gaze flicked downward for a second. Just a second. But in it, he saw her. The way her breasts strained against the suit, the latex pressing around their curve like a glove too tight. Her nipples stood faintly defined beneath the fabric. The way the suit hugged her between her thighs — molded perfectly, splitting her softness into shape. Not a wrinkle, not a crease. Just smooth, wet sheen over raw shape.

And yet, when he looked back up, his eyes were soft again. Full of ache, not hunger. As if he was torn. As if he didn’t want to touch, but needed to.

"You always carried everything so gracefully," he said quietly, "Like your body wasn’t made to drive someone mad. But it does."

Her breath hitched.

’Say something. Push him away. You’re not his weakness. You were his choice. And he broke you.’

But she didn’t move.

Cruxius stepped a little closer. The gap between them shrank. He didn’t touch her again — not yet — but she could feel the heat coming off him.

"I never wanted anyone else to matter the way you did," he said. "But I thought... if I drowned in others, maybe I’d stop craving you. It didn’t work. It only made me hate myself more."

Ytrisia looked down. Her fingers curled slightly against his chest, still resting there.

’He’s saying everything right. He always did. But it’s his hands I remember. Not on me. On them.’

Still... her body didn’t pull away.

Cruxius’s fingers brushed her knuckles. "You’re still so quiet," he said gently. "Do I make you nervous now?"

She shook her head once. Then slowly, nodded.

A faint smile touched his lips — not wide, not smug. Just a sad curve. "I’ll move slow. Only if you want me to."

Then he lifted his hand — slowly — and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. The latex was cold around her body, but her skin was warm underneath. The contrast made her shiver.

"You feel everything, don’t you?" he said. "Even when you don’t show it."

His hand slid to her jaw, just holding it, thumb resting just below her lip.

"I miss that about you."

Then, a kiss. Not on the lips. Just on her forehead. Barely there. Gentle. And again — on her temple.

He didn’t force. Didn’t rush. Just kissed her skin like it meant something.

’should I stop?’

But her body... moved.

She let him guide her, step by step, back toward the bed.

It wasn’t even a real bed. Just a wide padded surface built into the corner, soft enough to sink into. The room stayed quiet. Still lavender.

She sat first, uncertain. He followed, kneeling in front of her — eyes never leaving her face. His lips met her chin. Her neck. Slow. Pausing between each one like he was memorizing her.

She didn’t stop him. Her fists clenched the edge of the bed beneath her, latex squeaking faintly. Her body was tensed, heart loud in her ears.

Then he looked up.

His hands rested lightly on her thighs.

"Can we..." he whispered, voice close now, breath brushing her lips.

"Can we make this night beautiful?"

Cruxius didn’t wait for her answer.

He just moved.

Took her hand again, warm fingers wrapping around her wrist—not tight, not forceful, just... deliberate. He guided it upward first, brushed her knuckles against his lips, kissed the inside of her wrist, soft and slow, his breath hot and trembling there like it meant something.

Then he lowered it.

Down over his chest, stomach, until her palm met the ridge of his pants—and there it was.

Thick. Hard. Pulsing.

Even with the fabric in the way, there was no mistaking the shape. The heat of it. The way it pressed into her hand like it was alive, twitching under her skin.

She yanked her hand back like it burned. Her voice sharp. "What are you doing?"

But he didn’t flinch.

Just looked at her. A soft little smile playing on his lips—not mocking, not smug—just a slow, aching curve that cut deeper than it should.

"You saw it, didn’t you?" he murmured, voice low. "You didn’t even touch me properly. Just looking at you... this thing’s trying to rip my pants off."

Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no words came.

She blinked.

’No. No, don’t make this about me. Don’t put that weight on my skin. You don’t get to twist this into my fault.’

But her eyes dipped. Her fingers still felt the heat, the pressure, the throb of him through the cloth.

Then he leaned in.

His chest pressed into her, slow but firm. Her breasts flattened under the pressure, still trapped in latex, soft and huge against the hard plane of his body. The suit squeaked faintly. His cock—still thick, still heavy—rested against her thighs now. Not subtle. Not shy.

She could feel everything.

Even through the suit, even through his pants—it was there. The weight. The heat. The shape.

A line. A pulse. A need.

Her thighs tensed without meaning to. The latex between them pulled taut, hugging every curve of her pussy, cutting a sharp, glistening line down the center.

She stared.