Chapter Eight
Elsa
Morning comes in pale and quiet, filtered through heavy curtains that don’t quite manage to keep the light out. It pools on the sheets, on the edge of the bed.
I blink once. Twice.
And then my body catches up.
Oh.
My.
God.
Every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out and put back together in the best possible way. There’s a deep, delicious ache between my thighs that makes my face heat the second I shift. My hips protest. My legs protest. I’m pretty sure my dignity would protest too, if I had any left.
Antonio’s arm is thrown over my waist, heavy and warm. His palm is big and warm on my breast as he sleeps. I try to move—just a small adjustment, a test—and the soreness bites in sharply enough that I hiss through my teeth.
Antonio makes a sound, low and pleased, without opening his eyes.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I stare at the ceiling like it’s going to save me. “Don’t.”
His fingers flex, tightening over my nipple and sending a fresh jolt of lightning through me. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t sound smug.”
A lazy smile curves into his cheek, visible even from where I’m lying. He opens one eye, then the other, and his gaze drifts down my face like he’s still hungry.
“I promised,” he says, completely unapologetic, “you wouldn’t walk properly.”
“Bastard,” I whisper without any heat at all. “I think I sprained my vagina.”
He laughs then, a low, warm rumble that I can feel in my bones. “I’ll kiss it and make it better.” He leans in and nuzzles the spot behind my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
My traitorous body betrays me, arching into him like a cat getting petted. His morning erection presses against my ass, and I’m not sure my body can handle it. It wants to, though. Oh, how it wants to.
“I can walk,” I say, because I’m not going to give him that victory for free.
He hums, unconvinced, and starts kneading my breast gently, teasing the peak with the pad of his thumb.
I’m already wet for him. I’m not sure it ever fully stopped.
“Demonstrate,” he says, dragging his lips along the back of my neck.
I turn my head and glare at him, but it’s ruined by the fact that I’m smiling. I can feel it. The corners of my mouth are traitors.
“You’re insufferable,” I tell him.
He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to my shoulder, before turning me until we’re facing each other.
He doesn’t remove his hand from my breast.
His hair is a mess, his jaw shadowed, his eyes dark and warm in the morning light. He looks unfairly good for a man who should be just as sore as I am.
“I’m charming,” he corrects.
“You’re—” I start, and then realize I can’t even get a proper insult out, not when he’s touching me like this.
His thumb slides over my nipple again, making me shiver.
“You were going to say ‘insatiable’,” he tells me, smugly. “We’ve covered that.”
“I was going to say ‘awful,’” I lie.
He laughs, deep and genuine, and leans in, kissing me deeply. It’s not a demanding kiss like last night. It’s slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world to taste me.
The kiss is soft at first, then deeper. Antonio’s tongue nudges between my lips like he’s testing whether I’m going to let him.
I let him.
His fingers trace the line of my spine lazily.
My hand finds his shoulder, then his chest, and I feel the solid warmth of him under my palm. My body reacts immediately—muscles tightening, pulse spiking, that sore, tender place between my legs pulsing like it didn’t get enough last night.
Which is insane.
And yet.
Antonio breaks the kiss and watches me breathe.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say without thinking, and then realize we are absolutely not talking about food.
His smile turns wicked. “I knew it.”
I push lightly at his chest. “Not that. I meant—” I gesture vaguely with my hand, because I’m not coherent. “Actual breakfast.”
He laughs, low. “We can do breakfast.”
“Can we?” I ask, because his hand is already sliding down my hip again, like he can’t help himself.
He kisses my jaw, then my neck, and I shiver. “We should,” he says, voice against my skin. “We’ll order. Eat. Hydrate.” Another kiss. “Be responsible.”
I make a sound that is not dignified.
He lifts his head, eyes bright. “There’s that sound again. The one that drives me crazy.”
“Stop,” I whisper, but my hand is already sliding into his hair.
He rolls me over, and I am not strong enough.
His knee parts my thighs. I can feel him hard and ready against me, and I want to weep with how badly I want it. How much I want him again.
“Antonio,” I say, and I can’t manage anything else.
He leans in and kisses the shell of my ear, making me arch.
“I’m going to make you forget how to speak,” he whispers.
He already has.
He’s inside me in one long, smooth stroke, and my whole body lights up like a firework. The stretch is still a little tender, and the ache is sharp and perfect.
He starts moving, and the world narrows down to the rhythm of our bodies.
This is not the urgent, frantic sex from last night. This is slow, deliberate. Possessive.
His hands are everywhere: my waist, my hips, my breasts.
My nails dig into his back.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
I’m a nerve ending. I’m a fire. I’m his.
And just as I’m tipping over the edge—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I ignore it, but it brought me back from the edge for a moment. I pull him closer, my legs locking around him. "Keep going," I moan.
“I intend to,” he says roughly.
His thrusts start to speed up, and I realize he’s getting close, and I am nowhere near where I was a second ago, but I don’t care. I want this. I want to feel him come inside me.
He pulls back a bit, shifts, and changes angles, and oh.
There it is.
I arch with a cry.
“Antonio,” I manage.
He groans and moves faster. Harder. His thumb finds my clit and starts rubbing in circles.
I come with a sharp, surprised cry. My whole body clenches around him, and he follows me over the edge, burying himself deep with a low, rough sound.
We stay like that for a long minute, panting, tangled, sticky.
I’m never moving again.
He pulls out, and I make a pathetic whimpering sound at the loss of him.
He laughs, low, and shifts until he’s spooning me, pulling the sheet over both of us. The room is starting to get warm.
“Now,” he says, lips against my hair. “Breakfast.”
I don't want to move. The thought of leaving this warm, tangled mess of limbs and sheets is an actual tragedy. The idea of putting on clothes and interacting with another human being feels like a monumental task, bordering on impossible.
But my stomach, the traitor, rumbles. A loud, insistent gurgle that echoes in the quiet room.
Antonio’s chest vibrates with a silent chuckle behind me. “I guess that answers that.”
I press my face into the pillow, mortified. “That was not my stomach.”
“Oh, no?” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Who else is in this bed? A wild animal?”
“Yes,” I say, muffled by the pillow. “And she’s starving. And she’s also never leaving this bed again.”
He pats my hip. “We’ll see about that.” He untangles himself, and I mourn the loss of his warmth.
He reaches toward the bedside table and grabs the phone.
I watch him, propped on my elbow, and the movement makes my whole body protest again. I wince before I can hide it.
Antonio’s eyes flick to my face immediately.
“There it is,” he says, satisfied.
“Shut up,” I tell him, but it’s weak. It’s affectionate. It’s compromised.
He looks far too pleased with himself. “I told you.”
“You did,” I admit, because denying it is pointless.
He reaches out and slides his hand up my thigh, slow, stopping just shy of the sore place. His fingers hover like he’s tempted to test me.
My breath catches anyway.
His gaze locks on mine. “Still sore?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
He smiles like he’s been given a gift. “Good.”
“You’re a menace,” I say, and try to sound stern.
He leans in and kisses me again, a quick, warm press of lips. “Your menace.”
I should correct him. I should be offended. I should have a list of reasons why this is reckless and irresponsible and exactly the kind of thing I don’t do.
Instead, I feel my mouth curve and I hate how easy it is.
He shifts the phone in his hand. “Breakfast,” he says again, firm. “What do you want?”
“Coffee,” I say instantly.
He chuckles. “Of course.”
“And something… salty,” I add, because my stomach is a little too hollow.
He nods like he’s taking it seriously, then pauses. “You want it here?”
“Where else?” I ask.
He lifts a brow. “We could go downstairs.”
I stare at him. “Not a chance in hell.”
He grins. “You said you can walk.”
“I can,” I say stubbornly.
He looks at me with an amused tilt of his head.
I glare at him. I shift to sit up—and immediately regret it. My body feels like it’s made of bruises and pleasure. The sheet slips down my chest, and Antonio’s gaze drops with it. He makes a sound under his breath like a prayer.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, because the look in his eye is dangerous.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says, innocent in a way that is absolutely not convincing.
“You’re thinking,” I accuse.
“I always think,” he says, and his grin widens.
“Just order,” I wave him off. His grin doesn’t fade.
I sit back against the pillows and spot my phone on the bedside table, and remember the buzz.
I reach for it, unlock the screen, and immediately regret it.
Notifications.
Missed calls.
Messages.
My stomach drops.
Antonio’s hand stills on my leg, where he’s been absently running it up and down. “What is it?”
I stare at the screen, heart sinking. “I have a meeting.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “A meeting.”
“Yes,” I say, already tired.
He looks genuinely offended on my behalf. “On a Saturday morning?”
“Unfortunately,” I say, and there’s no humor in it. “Yes.”
He watches my face for a second, then reaches up and tilts my chin toward him. “When?”
I swallow. “Soon.”
His gaze flicks to the phone, then back to me.
“Cancel,” he says.
I laugh once, humorless. “I can’t.”
“Reschedule.”