Chapter 18 Marisa
MARISA
The twins finally give in to sleep, their little mouths slack against my skin before I tuck them back into their crib.
Their breathing evens out, soft as feathers, and their tiny fists curl like they’re still holding onto me.
I pull the blanket over them, smoothing it gently, then stand a moment just watching.
The door clicks softly behind me, and I glance back to see Roman filling the frame.
He doesn’t speak, just inclines his head, eyes sharp in the dim light.
“I’ve got the night watch,” he murmurs. “Take Cruz and go rest.”
It isn’t an offer; it’s Roman in that steady, immovable way of his.
My heart swells and aches at the same time.
I nod, too tired to argue, and brush past him into the hall.
He squeezes my shoulder once on the way, firm, like a promise.
Cruz is waiting.
He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, that quiet steadiness about him.
He falls into step beside me, no words, just presence, until we reach the kitchen.
The light is low, the old overhead bulb casting a warm, golden pool across the counters.
Cruz moves with easy surety, pulling mugs from a cabinet, a jar of cocoa from the shelf, and a small tin of cinnamon I didn’t even know was there.
I watch him work, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he stirs, steam curling in the air, the smell rich and warm.
He sets a mug in front of me with a little half-smile. “Didn’t think you’d mind a surprise.”
The first sip melts through me—hot chocolate laced with spice, the sweetness mellow, the cinnamon warming my tongue.
My eyes sting, unexpected tears pressing.
“Cruz,” I whisper. “This is…”
“Simple,” he finishes. His smile softens, deepening the lines around his mouth. “But sometimes simple is what saves us.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I step into him, pressing close, his heat seeping through the thin cotton of my shirt.
His arms come around me immediately, one hand at the small of my back, the other cupping the back of my head like he was waiting for this.
His mouth finds mine, not rushed, not demanding, but slow, patient, a kiss that feels like home and hunger both.
My lips part for him, my tongue sliding against his, and the low growl in his chest sends a tremor straight through me.
The mugs clink faintly as he nudges them aside, then he lifts me, setting me against the counter.
My thighs part for him easily, his hips fitting between them, his erection hard and insistent against my core.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against my lips, his breath hot, his hand trailing under my shirt, fingers brushing my ribs.
“I do,” I breathe, clutching his shoulders. “I want you.”
He groans, mouth finding my neck, sucking gently before dragging his teeth across the pulse there.
My head tips back, eyes closing as his tongue soothes the mark, his hands sliding lower, gripping my hips.
The window above the sink reflects us faintly—my hair wild, my eyes glassy, his broad body pressed into mine, heat radiating.
I watch us there, transfixed, as he grinds against me, slow, deliberate, his cock rubbing along my slit through the thin barrier of fabric.
“Look,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “See how you open for me.”
I do. I see it—the flush of my skin, the way my hips roll helplessly against his, chasing the friction.
My breath fogs the glass, my hands clutch his arms as his fingers tug at my waistband, sliding my pants down slow, baring me to him inch by inch.
He turns me gently, pressing my front against the counter, the cold surface shocking against my chest.
My ass pushes back instinctively, seeking him, and he groans low, his hands spreading me wide.
“You’re perfect,” he rasps, his thumb gliding through my wetness, circling my clit until I cry out. “So wet for me already.”
The head of his cock nudges at my entrance, hot and heavy, and I whimper, bracing my palms against the counter.
“Please, Cruz,” I beg, voice breaking. “I need you.”
He pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching me until I gasp.
His hands grip my hips firmly, steadying me as he fills me, thick and deep.
I sob at the fullness, my walls clenching around him, and his groan tears through the kitchen.
“Christ, Marisa,” he hisses, his chest pressed against my back. “You feel like heaven. So tight. So ready.”
He holds still for a moment, letting me adjust, then he begins to move.
Slow, steady strokes that make me moan, my ass pressing back into him, the counter edge biting into my hips.
The window catches us again, my face slack with pleasure, my mouth open in a silent cry, Cruz behind me, his expression carved in shadow and heat.
His hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to whisper against my ear.
“You take me so well,” he murmurs. “Every inch. Let me give you everything.”
I cry out as his thrusts deepen, the rhythm steady, each one grinding me against the counter until my clit sparks with every drag.
The reflection blurs with my breath on the glass, the image of us ghostly and raw, and I can’t look away.
His other hand slips around, fingers circling my clit, working me in tandem with the slow, relentless slide of his cock.
My body jerks, my voice breaking, my orgasm building sharp and fast.
“Cruz—please—I’m—”
“Come for me,” he growls, his thrusts quickening, his breath hot against my neck. “Show me how much you need this.”
The release rips through me, violent and sweet, my cry echoing in the kitchen.
My body shudders, my cunt clamping tight around him, milking his cock.
He groans, thrusting through it, holding me steady as I convulse against him.
Cruz stays buried deep, grinding slow, his cock thick inside me, his breath still rough against the back of my neck.
My legs are weak, my palms flat on the counter, but he doesn’t pull out.
His hand glides from my hip to my stomach, spreading over me, possessive and protective all at once.
Then he eases back, slipping free with a groan that makes my insides clench at the sudden emptiness.
I make a sound— needy, broken—but before I can complain, he murmurs against my ear.
“Not done with you yet. Want to try something.”
I barely get the words out, breathless. “What—?”
He lifts me, twisting me so my ass slides against the cool counter.
My legs dangle over the edge and my hands grip his shoulders.
The mugs rattle when he shoves them aside with his elbow, the smell of cinnamon and cocoa rising again, thick and sweet in the warm air.
I’m sitting on the counter now, but he doesn’t climb over me.
Instead, Cruz crouches low between my thighs, lifting them high, folding me nearly in half.
The new angle leaves me spread open, knees up near my chest, cunt glistening and dripping for him in the light.
My breath catches. “Cruz…”
He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my skin as he lines himself up again. “This way I can see every bit of you. Can watch myself sink into what’s mine.”
And he does.
He thrusts upward, thick and heavy, pushing into me at an angle that makes my head slam back against the cabinet.
The stretch is brutal and perfect, my body clutching him greedily as my cry echoes off the kitchen walls.
“God,” I gasp, toes curling as he bottoms out, the new angle driving him deeper than before, pressing into a place that makes stars burst across my vision. “Cruz—”
His hands are braced behind my knees, holding me wide open, his gaze locked on where we’re joined. “Fuck, look at that,” he rasps, hips working slow, deep, deliberate. “Look how you take me. Like you’re begging to be filled.”
The position has me helpless, pinned, unable to move.
All I can do is arch against the cabinet as he pounds up into me, each thrust sharp, grinding, stretching me raw.
My breasts bounce with every stroke, and his gaze flicks up to them, hungry.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, voice low but rough.
My hand shakes as it slips between us, fingers finding my clit.
The extra stimulation makes my back arch hard, my cunt fluttering around him.
He groans at the squeeze, his pace quickening, his cock sliding in and out with filthy wet sounds that fill the kitchen.
The window above the sink reflects it back.
I’m sprawled open on the counter, legs folded high, Cruz’s crouched and driving up into me with his broad shoulders straining, his face set in fierce concentration.
The sight makes me moan louder, my pussy clenching, my hand working my clit faster.
He notices.
He always notices.
“Yeah, that’s it, Marisa,” he growls, his voice ragged. “Play with yourself while I wreck you. I want you to come all over me again before I fill you.”
The words alone nearly undo me.
My hips buck, grinding against his thrusts, my nails digging into my thigh as I rub harder.
I’m babbling now, broken pleas and curses spilling out with every ragged breath.
Cruz leans forward suddenly, folding me tighter, his chest pressing to my legs as he braces me open even wider.
The new depth is devastating.
His cock pounds into me relentlessly, hitting that spot over and over until I scream, my whole body jerking with each brutal thrust.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his brow onto my skin. “So tight, so wet, squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”
“I don’t,” I sob, my nails raking down my stomach, my clit throbbing under my frantic touch. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t.
He slams deeper, faster, his growls echoing against my moans.
The pressure builds sharp and unbearable, and then it crashes through me.
My orgasm rips me apart, my body convulsing and my cry splitting the air.
My pussy gushes around him, soaking his cock, and he groans, his thrusts ragged now, desperate. “Fuck—Marisa—”
I can feel it in the way his body tightens, the way his cock jerks inside me.
He slams into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then he’s spilling.
Hot, thick spurts flood me, deep and heavy, filling me until I gasp, my cunt still fluttering around him.
He groans against my shoulder, grinding in deep to make sure none of it escapes, his seed spilling again and again until I swear I can feel it pooling inside me.
The reflection in the window shows me undone, sweat-damp and flushed, his body hunched over mine as he empties into me, claiming me.
The sight makes my stomach twist with something more than lust that feels like belonging.
Cruz finally collapses forward, still buried deep, his breath rough against my neck.
His lips brush my temple as he murmurs sweet nothings, bringing me down from the high.
He lifts me off the counter when my legs won’t hold me, his arms steady and sure as if I weigh nothing.
My body is still trembling, his cum warm inside me, but he doesn’t let me stumble.
He just carries me through the quiet hall, past the hum of the house settling, into the bedroom where the sheets are rumpled from earlier.
He lowers me carefully, tucking me beneath the quilt, his big hands smoothing it over me like I’m something fragile.
He leans down, kisses my hairline once, a press so gentle it makes my chest ache, then stretches out beside me.
His arm drapes heavy over my waist, his breathing evens, and for the first time in a long time, sleep drags me under without a fight.
I don’t know how long it’s been when the door opens again.
A low knock, then hinges creaking.
Roman’s broad frame fills the doorway, one arm steadying the bundle against his chest.
“The twins,” he murmurs, voice rough from hours awake.
I blink, the fog of sleep falling away, and push upright, the quilt slipping to my lap.
Cruz stirs but doesn’t rise.
Roman steps close and lowers the babies into my arms.
Their warmth soaks into me instantly, their little mouths rooting, fists twitching.
I pull them in against me, guiding each one to latch, their hungry noises soft but insistent.
My body responds without hesitation, milk letting down, and the release makes me sigh deep.
Roman doesn’t move away.
He lingers at the edge of the bed, watching, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
His pistol is still at his hip, his shirt damp with the cold of night watch, but his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen.
“They wouldn’t settle,” he mutters, almost apologetic.
“They’re fine now,” I whisper back, rocking slightly as their suckling steadies into rhythm.
Cruz leans over, his hand brushing my knee under the quilt, quiet reassurance that I’m not alone in this.
I look down at the babies, their lashes fluttering, their cheeks round and flushed, their tiny hands resting against me.
My chest aches, but not from pain, from the strange, fragile fullness of it.
When they finish, I burp them one by one against my shoulder, their small hiccuping breaths making me laugh quietly, something I didn’t know I had the strength for tonight.
The sound startles me.
Then I realize I don’t feel drained.
Not like before.
Not like every day of this past year when exhaustion was a second skin.
For once, even with their little bodies clinging to me, even with the weight of everything around us, I feel lighter.
I kiss the crown of each small head, breathing them in. “Less tired than I’ve been in a long time,” I murmur, half to myself.
I catch Roman smiling before he quickly replaces it with a light nod.
It’s close, I tell myself.
It’s almost everything I’ve ever wanted.