Chapter 20 Adrian #2
I take his left hand. The splinted one. I lift it carefully from the pillow and press it against my bare chest. His fingers curl against my sternum. The thick gauze is rough on my skin, but the warmth of his palm radiates through the bandages.
"This hand," I say, my voice thick. "This is the hand I want touching me."
His eyes close. Something breaks in his face. It is a quiet, structural collapse. A load-bearing wall giving way to reveal a room that has been sealed off in the dark for years.
"I don't know how to be gentle," he whispers.
"I don't need gentle. I need you."
I climb into the bed. The mattress shifts under our combined weight.
The IV pole rocks slightly. I straddle his hips, positioning my knees on either side of his waist. He is enormous beneath me.
I press my palms flat against his heavy pectorals.
The Madonna rises and falls under my left hand.
His heartbeat accelerates rapidly beneath my palm—from sixty-two to seventy-eight.
I bend down and kiss the thick, puckered scar on his collarbone. I trace the raised tissue with my tongue. He shudders, a deep vibration I feel in my lips.
I move lower. I find the gunshot divot on his ribs. I press my mouth against it. I kiss it the way I’d kiss a wound I intend to close. With deep attention. With care.
I move to the cigarette burns on his flank. I trace each one with my fingertip. Three, four, five small circles of raised, shiny scarring. I press my lips to each one, lingering on the damaged skin. He flinches on the third burn. His right hand shoots up and finds my hair again, gripping tight.
"Adrian." My name in his mouth is raw, stripped of all pretense.
I reach between us. My hand slides beneath the elastic waistband of his hospital pants. He’s incredibly hard. My fingers close around him, and his hips lift off the mattress in a reflexive surge.
I stroke him. Slow. Measured. It is the exact same cadence I use with a needle driver.
My thumb traces the broad head. His jaw clenches tight.
His right hand grips the bedsheet, knuckles white.
His left hand—the repaired hand—presses against my chest, the bandaged fingers curling against my skin.
The nerve signals are traveling the newly restored pathways.
"You didn't break me," I say, bringing my face close to his. "You woke me up."
He pulls me down. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is deeper now. Desperate. His right hand slides down my bare back, finds the waistband of my trousers, and pulls them down.
We shed the remaining fabric. It is a graceless negotiation, impeded by his splint and my position. Finally, we are skin against skin. The contrast is absolute. His dense chest hair against my smooth sternum. His thick, heavy thighs settled between my narrow ones.
I reach for the bedside table and grab a tube of surgical lubricant. My hands are perfectly steady as I prepare us. He watches me. His dark eyes track my every movement with absolute reverence.
I lower myself onto him. Slowly. The control is entirely mine this time. It is a choice made in a clean room with good light.
He fills me. The sensation is overwhelming fullness. My hands press against his chest for leverage. His hands hold my hips—right and left, the whole hand and the repaired hand.
I begin to move. He meets my thrusts. He is careful at first, testing the limits of his healing ribs. His jaw tightens with the effort. The Madonna flexes under my palm. I set the rhythm and he follows. The surgeon rides the enforcer.
His right hand slides up my chest. His thumb finds the hollow of my throat. He holds me there. He is not squeezing. He is holding.
"Stay," he says. The word is heavy. A plea.
"I’m not going anywhere."
The rhythm builds. The sound of our breathing fills the quiet room. The pleasure climbs through my body in hot stages. I let it come without counting the seconds, without measuring the depth.
He comes first. The sound he makes is a total surrender. A deep, shuddering exhale that vibrates into my chest. His hips press upward hard, his hand tightening on my neck with a gentleness that contradicts his brutal construction.
I follow him over the edge. The orgasm moves through me like a systemic shock. This obliteration is entirely voluntary. I chose it. I chose him.
We lie tangled in the bed. The sheets are ruined. His splinted hand rests heavy on my stomach. My head rests on his shoulder.
His heartbeat is slow against my ear. Fifty-eight beats per minute. Resting.
I trace the faded blue lines of the Madonna with my fingertip.
I am in a compound owned by the Italian mafia. I am in bed with an enforcer who has killed men with his bare hands. My sister’s safety is still uncertain. My medical license is revoked.
I have traded one cage for another. The walls are different.
But there is a critical difference. This cage has a door. And the key is in my hand.
I close my eyes. His thick arm tightens around me. His breathing deepens.
I sleep. No counting. No measuring. Just the quiet of a room where the mechanic and the hammer finally rest.