13. Gianna
GIANNA
H is weight presses into me before I can think, before I can catch my breath.
There’s no hesitation in his hands now.
No doubt.
He’s hungry, possessive, nearly feral, and I should care, I should resist—I should remind myself why we’re here in the first place.
I arch into him instead.
His mouth crashes down on mine, hot and deep and unrelenting, and the taste of myself on his tongue makes my body clench.
He kisses like a man trying to memorize me.
Not sweet or tender, but claiming.
His hands grip my thighs and drag them up around his waist, and I feel the heat of him already pushing against me, thick and impossibly hard.
"Dante," I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice. "God."
"I’m not stopping," he says, dragging his mouth down my throat, nipping at my collarbone before licking the sting away. "Not this time. Not until I’ve had every inch of you."
The words go straight through me.
He hooks my legs higher and drives into me with one hard, punishing thrust.
I cry out, not from pain but from the shock of being filled so completely.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust.
He pulls back and slams into me again, groaning low against my skin like he’s been holding this in for years.
My fingers claw at his back, my hips lifting to meet every stroke.
The pace is brutal, perfect, exactly what I didn’t know I was aching for.
Every thrust hits deep, grinding bone against heat, scraping away the lies we’ve been telling ourselves since the moment we met.
"I used to fuck to forget," he says against my neck, voice wrecked and raw. "Now all I think about is you."
He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand, the other sliding down to grip my waist and hold me still as he pounds into me.
The angle is maddening.
My breath staggers, thighs trembling with every slam of his hips.
"You feel this?" he growls. "This is what you’ve been hiding from me. What you kept from me."
I meet his eyes and see it—fury, lust, confusion, something deeper than either of us knows what to do with.
"It wasn’t just mine to give," I say, panting. "You said you didn’t want a future. I believed you."
He groans and lets go of my wrists, dragging both hands under my thighs and lifting me, folding me tight beneath him so he can go even deeper.
My head tips back and my vision blurs.
His pace turns frantic.
Wet skin slapping.
My body shuddering.
His name pouring from my lips like a prayer I’m not sure I should be saying.
"I want it now," he grits out. "God help me, I want everything."
His hand slips between us, fingers finding that spot that already throbs from too much need.
He circles it in time with every thrust, and I come apart like a dam bursting.
I scream into his shoulder, my body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure explodes through every nerve.
He keeps going, harder, messier, like he’s chasing something inside himself he can’t name.
I can feel him lose control.
The way his breath stutters against my neck, how his rhythm falters just slightly, growing erratic, deeper, more urgent.
His grip on my hips tightens, fingers digging into the flesh like he needs to anchor himself before he completely unravels.
My legs are shaking, still locked around his waist, drawing him in with every thrust.
"Gianna," he pants, voice shredded. "I can’t—God, I can’t stop?—"
"Don’t," I whisper back, nails raking across the sweat-slicked muscle of his back. "Don’t stop. I want you to finish inside me."
His groan is guttural, pulled from somewhere so raw it punches straight through my spine.
His hips slam into mine once, twice, harder now, rougher.
I can feel him swelling thick and deep within me, the strain in his shoulders, the tremble in his thighs.
He’s right there.
So am I.
It’s all heat and friction and that unbearable build rising again, a second crest coming faster than I expected.
He grabs the back of my thigh and drives in deeper, burying himself completely.
My body clenches around him again, helpless, breath caught in my throat as the pressure inside me breaks open.
I fall apart under him, moaning low and shattered, thighs shaking, toes curling.
And in the middle of my release flooding out, coating his cock, he curses hard, one sharp word against my skin as his hips jerk once more.
Then he holds.
Buried deep.
His entire body locked.
And I feel his release, hot and pulsing, spilling into me in thick waves, each contraction dragging a low groan from his chest.
He stays pressed against me, chest heaving, head dropped into the crook of my neck, his arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid I’ll vanish the second he lets go.
His breath is uneven, lashes damp against my collarbone.
My breath slows against the edge of his neck, skin still flushed and damp.
His hand is a steady weight on my hip, fingers stroking the curve in soft, absent-minded patterns.
I shift a little, and he murmurs something into my hair that sounds like satisfaction and apology wrapped in one wordless breath.
I’m still sore, my thighs trembling faintly.
He must feel it too, because he brushes his lips over my temple and slips away with a low groan, pulling on his pants without looking at me.
He lifts me up gently, carrying me to the bed and laying me down.
It's not as if I need this aftercare, but I can admit it feels pretty damn great.
"I’ll be back," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "Don’t fall asleep."
"What, planning to throw me into another wall?" I mumble, curling into the sheets.
He gives me that slow smirk—less arrogant than usual, more curious, like he’s not sure what to do with what just happened either.
"Something sweeter," he says, and disappears.
I expect him to be gone long enough for me to be half-asleep, but he’s back ten minutes later with a plate full of warm brownies dark as night, ice cream melting in rivulets down their sides.
He sets the tray on the nightstand and sinks beside me again, this time not to devour, but to share.
"You trying to bribe me?" I ask, picking up a spoon.
He shrugs. "Worked on me. Figured it might work on you, too."
I take a bite.
Rich, warm, decadent.
My eyes flutter shut.
"All right. Maybe you’re not completely useless."
"High praise from the mother of my children."
I snort and hand him the spoon.
"Don’t get used to it."
We sit like that for a while, sharing from the same plate, bodies close but not quite tangled, voices soft.
He tells me about a night years ago when he and Marco ended up handcuffed to a marble statue in Venice, the kind of trouble only rich boys and unlimited vodka could summon.
I remind him of the first time we met.
"I remember thinking you were a fucking menace," he says around a mouthful of brownie.
"Only because I was right."
"No," he says, wiping the corner of my mouth with his thumb. "Because you made me nervous."
I go quiet at that, not expecting the honesty.
I take another bite to avoid replying too quickly, but the warmth isn’t just from the chocolate now.
"I never thought we’d end up here," I admit softly. "Married. In bed. Full of sugar and…other things."
He leans back on one elbow, eyes still on mine.
"Yeah, well, we’re good at improvising."
The moment stretches.
My heart beats just a little too fast.
"It’s not too bad this way," I murmur, the words slipping out before I can pull them back.
He stills.
His brows lift slightly, like he’s unsure if I meant to say it aloud.
I swallow.
"Forget it. I didn’t mean?—"
"No," he cuts in, voice quieter than before. "It isn’t."