Chapter 24 #4
The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s thick, alive, filled with the sound of our breathing.
Santino’s fingers trace idle patterns on my bare back, his touch light, almost absentminded, but I can feel the possessiveness in it, the way his fingers flex slightly, like he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again.
I shift slightly, my body still sensitive, still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
His cock is still inside me, softening but not yet slipped free, and the sensation of him there, even like this, sends a fresh wave of warmth through me.
I press my lips to his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint tang of sweat.
He hums, the sound vibrating against my mouth, and his hand slides up to cup the back of my head, holding me to him.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his lips brushing against my temple.
I smile against his skin. “I always think too loudly.”
His chuckle is low, warm. “What’s on your mind?”
I lift my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark, his pupils still slightly blown, his lips swollen from our kisses.
He looks thoroughly debauched, thoroughly satisfied, and it sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
“I was just thinking about how good you feel,” I admit, my voice soft.
“Even like this. Even when you’re not… you know. ”
His eyebrows lift, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not what?”
I roll my hips slightly, and he groans, his cock twitching inside me. “Not hard.”
His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. “I can fix that,” he growls, his voice rough.
I laugh, the sound breathy, needy. “Can you?”
His answer is to roll us, pinning me beneath him, his body covering mine, his cock hardening inside me. I gasp, my back arching, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh,” I breathe, my body already responding to him, already aching for more.
He smirks, his hips rolling slowly, his cock dragging against that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. “Oh?” he echoes, his voice a dark tease. “Is that all you’ve got for me, amore?”
I moan, my head falling back, my body arching into his. “More,” I gasp. “Give me more.”
He does. He always does.
The second time is slower, deeper, a lazy, languid exploration of each other’s bodies.
Santino’s mouth finds mine again, his kisses deep and unhurried, his tongue tangling with mine as his hips roll in slow, deep circles.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer, deeper.
His cock drags against that spot inside me with every movement, sending sparks through my body, my nerves alight with pleasure.
His hands are everywhere—cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples, sliding down to grip my ass, his fingers spreading me open as he drives into me. I can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein, and it’s maddening, how good he feels, how perfectly we fit together.
“You’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “So fucking tight, amore.”
I moan, my nails digging into his skin. “It’s you,” I gasp. “You’re so big. You stretch me so good.”
He groans, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside me. “Fuck, Pia. You’re gonna make me come again.”
“Do it,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
He does. With a groan, his body tenses, his cock pulsing as he comes, his release hot and thick inside me. I clench around him, my body milking him for every last drop, my own pleasure building, coiling tight in my belly.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice rough. “I want to feel you.”
I do. With a cry, my body clenches around him, pleasure crashing over me, wave after wave of it leaving me breathless, trembling. He collapses against me, his body heavy, his breath warm against my skin.
We stay like that for a long time, our bodies tangled together, our breaths slowly evening out, our hearts beating in time. The room is warm, the air thick with the scent of sex, of us. It’s perfect. We’re perfect.
And I never want to let it go.
When he finally pulls back, his breath is rough, forehead still resting against mine.
“Whatever comes next,” he whispers, “we take it together. No more you alone. No more me alone.”
My heart answers before my brain can argue.
Together.
It’s fucking terrifying.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.
Heaven, Hell, and Him
The kiss doesn’t stop.
It shifts.
What starts soft—careful, reverent—turns heavier in my chest, warmer in my veins. His mouth deepens on mine, not frantic, not wild, but sure. Like he’s decided something inside himself and now he’s letting his body speak it.
I breathe him in.
Pine and soap. Smoke caught on his shirt. Santino, stripped of blood and churches and war. Just him.
His hands slide from my waist up my spine, pulling me closer until there’s no doubt where I end and he begins. Our bodies fit like we’ve done this in a hundred lives already. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the hollow of my throat like he’s mapping something holy with his lips.
My knees go weak.
I fist his shirt, not to push away—never to push away—but to hold myself together.
“Santino,” I breathe against his mouth.
He answers by lifting me.
One smooth, solid motion. No strain. No hesitation. Like I weigh nothing. Like I’m the only thing he’d carry out of a burning world.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, my face tucking into the hot curve of his neck as he walks—steady, unhurried—down the short hall.
Toward the back room. Toward the bedroom that still smells like clean wood and last night’s breath.
Toward the place where the universe shrinks down to one bed, one man, one truth.
Rain starts tapping the roof as he nudges the door open with his foot.
Soft light spills over us. Warm sheets wait.
He lays me down like I’m breakable.
Like I’m worth not breaking.
He stays above me for a beat, forearms braced on either side of my head, eyes combing my face like he’s asking a question without words.
“No shadows tonight,” he murmurs.
My throat tightens.
“No lies,” he adds. “Nothing between us.”
My hands slide into his hair, pulling him down until our foreheads touch.
“And if I’m still scared?” I whisper.
My voice barely makes it past my heartbeat.
“Then I’ll hold you through it,” he says.
And I believe him.
Not because he promises.
Because I’m already in his arms and he hasn’t let go.
He kisses me again, slow and deep, and it stops being about heat—even though heat is there, low and relentless. It’s about claiming. It’s about anchoring. It’s about choosing.
His hands move—not greedy, not rushed—but sure. He takes his time like he’s afraid the world might crack if he moves too fast.
My breath stutters when his mouth leaves mine, trailing down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. Being seen like this—wanted like this—without a price tag attached to it splits something inside me wide open.
My fingers twist in his hair.
His name falls out of me like a prayer I never learned in church.
He strips off his shirt without ceremony, tossing it aside like it stopped mattering the second we walked into this room. I push myself up just enough to run my hands over his chest, over scars he never talks about, over the heart hammering under my palm like it forgot how to be careful.
He watches me touch him like I’m the one doing something sacred.
The weight of that makes my lungs ache.
He peels my shirt off next, slower, his gaze never leaving mine. He watches every breath, every flinch, every hesitation, like he’s reading a litany written under my skin.
I don’t bolt.
I open.
When his mouth finds me again, it’s worship, not hunger. Every kiss says the same thing in a hundred different ways:
You’re here.You’re safe.You’re wanted.
Tears sting my eyes and spill over before I can stop them.
He stills instantly, pulling back just enough to see my face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing beneath my eye. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know how to take this,” I admit, voice shaking. “Being touched lovingly. That’s foreign to me.”
He bends, pressing his mouth to my forehead.
Then my nose.
Then, my lips again—soft, sealing.
“You don’t have to earn this,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to bleed for it. You don’t have to survive it.”
A sob tears loose from somewhere deep and ugly inside me. I bury my face against his shoulder, fingers digging into his back like I’m afraid he’ll evaporate if I loosen my grip.
“I just…” My words splinter. “I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t,” he says.
Not like a promise.
Like a sentence.
“Not while I’m breathing.”
He shifts us, drawing me fully against him, our bodies lined up, our legs tangled. His arm bands around my waist, his hand at the small of my back, holding me so close, I can feel his warmth and heartbeat.
When we finally move again—when it becomes bodies instead of tears—it isn’t frantic.
It’s slow.
Deliberate.
Every touch is a question.Every touch is an answer.
Every kiss is an affirmation.
The rain intensifies, drumming on the roof in uneven bursts. The bed creaks softly beneath us. Time stretches and then disappears.
For the first time in my life, I am not counting seconds, not waiting for it to be over.
I sink into him instead.
When it’s finally done—when we’re both shaking, breathless, stripped down to bone and nerve—we lie tangled beneath the blankets, his arm heavy across my waist, my cheek resting in the warm hollow of his throat.
The world loses its edges.
It’s just this.
Him.
His heartbeat.
The rain.
I draw in a breath, and for once, it doesn’t hurt.
I don’t flinch.
I don’t brace for the next blow.
I just exist.
Safe.
Not because the danger vanished.
Because I’m finally with someone who will step between me and it without thinking twice.
I don’t fall asleep right away.