Ash’s smut

 

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ASH’S SMUT: INITIATION

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Welcome to the altar of wet pages and whispered names.

I don’t write romance.

I write worship—with teeth.

Tongues that press against sins no priest can forgive.

Hands that leave bruises shaped like prayer.

This is your warning.

I’m not here to play nice.

I’m here to make you ache.

So take the candle.

Bite the lace.

And open wide.

You’re mine now.

—Ash

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Meet Ash – Horror Ink’s Smuttiest Secret

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Before we came, before we owned this space, Horror Ink was blood and bone. Now it’s blood, bone, and filth—because I brought the heat.

Yes, I wrote books. Yes, you can find them on Amazon and the Horror Ink website. But nothing compares to the thrill of writing smut—dirty, sacred, dripping smut. The kind that makes your thighs clench and your demons purr.

Jake? Oh, bless him. He insists smut should come from me, because he says, “It just isn’t right for a man to write it.” And after reading his attempt, let’s just say my imaginary vagina filed a restraining order.

So, to the ladies (and those who love smut with fangs):

Welcome to Ash’s Domain.

You’re going to beg.

You’re going to sin.

You’re going to love it.

🩸“Say My Name Like It’s a Sin”

by Ash

He doesn’t even speak when he enters the room—just watches.

The candlelight flickers, casting halos and shadows over your skin, and you can feel it—that thick silence between you, the weight of being wanted so hard it almost hurts. You try to stay still, but you’re already trembling, already wet. He hasn’t touched you yet. That’s the worst part.

Or the best.

He moves behind you, slow, barefoot, quiet. You feel his breath at your ear before his words come, warm and unapologetic:

“Do you even know what you do to me?”

Fingertips trail down your spine, so lightly it’s almost cruel. You arch, instinctive, your body already begging to be claimed. But he doesn’t rush. No, he circles you like a ritual—hands ghosting over your hips, your ribs, the base of your throat.

He waits.

And then?

His palm wraps around your throat—not tight, just there—and his mouth grazes your ear as he says:

“I want to fuck you like you’re sacred.”

You gasp, and that’s all the permission he needs. He presses his lips to the back of your neck, slow, dragging, worshipping the way your body pulses beneath him. His other hand slides down your stomach, finding the edge of your panties, the soft heat beneath.

He murmurs your name like a spell.

“I want to hear you break. Give it to me.”

His fingers dip between your legs—one stroke, two—and your knees nearly give. You feel him smile against your skin as he pushes deeper, curling just right, just there, until you moan, desperate, breathless.

And he loves it—the sound, the need, the way you say his name like a prayer and a curse.

“Say it again,” he growls, dragging his tongue up your neck.

“Say my fucking name.”

You do. Loud. Wild. Wrecked.

And he rewards you with rhythm—those perfect strokes, his hand around your throat keeping you grounded while his fingers drive you closer, tighter, wetter. Every nerve in your body screams for release, and he doesn’t stop. He pushes you further, just to hear that one sound you make when you fall apart.

And when you do?

He holds you through it—whispers into your hair:

“Good girl. You’re mine now.”