10. Lachlan #4
Adriana takes a slow breath. "It's very complicated," she says finally.
"You'll be able to understand it better when you're older, sweetheart.
But your dad had to leave, so that he would be safe.
And I couldn't talk to you about it, in order to keep him safe.
But now he's here." Her voice shakes a little at the end, and I can tell that she's saying this not because she believes it, exactly, but because she needs Matteo to believe it, to feel safe.
Matteo sits there for a moment, his little hands clenched together, thinking all of this over. He looks at his mother, and then he looks at me, his face serious.
"Okay," he says finally. It's not acceptance or trust exactly, not trust, but it's a willingness to consider the possibility that I might be telling the truth—that I might actually care about him and his mother. That I might be different from the other men in his life.
It's a start.
We spend another hour together with me watching him play his game after Adriana leaves to give us a little space together, and occasionally asking questions.
I can see him starting to relax a little around me.
And for that hour, I let myself forget about the war that's coming, about Adriana's anger and hurt, about all the ways I've fucked this up.
I just focus on being here with my son and trying to be the father he deserves, even though I have no idea what I'm doing.
But when I finally leave his room and make my way back to my own, I'm alone again with nothing to distract me from my thoughts.
Everything comes crashing back—the conversation with Gio, the war preparations, Adriana's accusations, the security that she sees as control rather than protection, the unbearable sexual tension that's driving me slowly insane.
I can hear her moving around in her room as I pass by it and hear the soft sounds of her getting ready for bed.
I'm painfully aware of the fact that she's so close I could reach her in seconds.
If I wanted to, I could demand that she let me in, that she talk to me and acknowledge this thing between us that's been burning for ten years.
But I don't. She's already so far away from me emotionally, and pushing her will only make things worse. I have to believe that the longer she's here, the more she sees what I'm willing to do to keep her, the lengths I'll go, she'll soften toward me again. She'll see how much I love her.
I stand there for a long moment, and I lean my forehead against the door, hearing the soft rustling of the bed as she gets into it. The thought of her there hardens my cock instantly, and I clench my teeth to keep from groaning as pain and desire flood my nerves all at once.
This is driving me mad. I need her. I'm starved for touch, for intimacy, and nothing will do except the woman I love…
this woman. My cock throbs and I curl my hands into fists, feeling my heart beat in time with the throb of blood lower down.
She has everything of me—my heart, my body, my fucking soul, and I don't know how long I can take this.
She has to relent. She has to. There's no way we can have come this far, finally be together again, only for her to reject any possibility that this was always meant to be.
Finally, I manage to drag myself away from her door and down the hall, retreating to my own room. I close the door and let out a ragged breath, undressing hastily as I go to the bed, my fist already around my cock and stroking before I'm even lying down.
I'm so fucking sore, even with pre-cum slicking my reddened shaft, but I can't stop.
I run my fist raggedly up and down, desperate for the orgasm that will give me a sliver of relief, enough to hopefully sleep tonight.
My fantasies are a muddled montage of things we did together over the years—stolen kisses, her hand sneaking down my jeans and mine up under her skirt, that night in the garden when I was finally inside of her—and feverish fantasies of things we've never done.
Her on her knees, my cockhead pressed against her tongue, her bent over a bed, bent over in the shower, on top of me, breasts bouncing as she rides the same cock that's throbbing desperately for her right now.
I stroke and stroke, gasping as I moan her name, one fist balling up in the bedsheets as I finally feel the hot surge of release that will give me a momentary reprieve.
I come hard, harder than I should considering how many times a day I've been doing this since I found her, spurts of it spattering over my rock-hard abs and chest. The last couple drips over my hand, the wet heat soothing my battered cock momentarily, and as I feel it start to soften, I let out a breath.
Maybe I'll get some sleep tonight. I'll dream about her, and I'll wake up in the morning hard again, but at least I can rest for a moment.
I won't be able to really rest until she's truly mine, though. Not until she believes me that I still love her, that I'll do anything to make her love me again, to keep her.
Not until she's lying in my arms again, breathless and satisfied with my cum inside of her instead of dripping off my abs.