Chapter 7 - Franco
"My life suits me," I say, the lie smooth on my tongue from years of repetition.
Sarah stares at me with those tired but perceptive brown eyes, and I feel exposed in a way that's entirely unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Dangerous, even.
In fifteen years, I've never discussed my past with anyone except Dante.
Not the foster homes where I learned that strength was the only currency that mattered.
Not the military where I honed that strength into deadly precision.
Not the failed mission that left me as the sole survivor, carrying the weight of my team's deaths.
Yet here I am, standing in this woman's cramped kitchen, having just revealed more about myself in ten minutes than I have to anyone in a decade. What the hell is happening to me?
"I don't believe you," Sarah says quietly, still watching me from the couch.
"Excuse me?"
"That your life suits you." She shifts, adjusting the ice pack on her ankle. "I think it's what you're used to. What you're good at. But that's not the same as it being what you want."
I push away from the counter, irritated by her presumption. "You don't know what I want."
"No," she agrees, annoyingly reasonable. "But I don't think you do either."
The accuracy of her observation cuts deeper than I care to admit. What do I want? It's a question I stopped asking myself years ago. Want is irrelevant in my world. There's necessity, duty, loyalty. Wants are luxuries for people with choices.
I check my watch, needing a moment to regroup, to rebuild the walls she's somehow dismantled with just a few perceptive comments. "How's your ankle feeling?"
Sarah allows the deflection, removing the ice pack. "Better. The pain relievers you brought are stronger than what I usually take."
"They should be. They're prescription strength."
She raises an eyebrow. "Should I ask how you got prescription medication without a prescription?"
"No."
She laughs softly, the sound easing some of the tension between us. "Fair enough."
I move back to the living room, taking the armchair across from her
"Thank you," she says. "For telling me about your past. I don't imagine you do that often."
"I don't," I confirm. "Ever, actually."
"Why me, then?" she asks, her eyes meeting mine directly.
It's the question I've been asking myself since the words left my mouth. Why her? Why now? What is it about this woman that makes me lower defenses I've maintained for decades?
"I don't know," I repeat.
Sarah nods slowly, seeming to accept this incomplete answer. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you told me. It helps me understand you better."
"And do you? Understand me?"
"Parts of you," she says. "Enough to know there's more to Franco Salvatore than what most people see."
"You should rest your ankle more before Tommy gets back," I say, redirecting the conversation once again.
Sarah sighs. "You're probably right. But I'm tired of sitting. I've been on this couch all day." She pushes herself up, testing her weight on the injured ankle. "I think I need to move around a bit, get the blood flowing."
I watch as she takes a few steps, her limp less pronounced than before. "Better?"
"A little." She moves toward the kitchen, then stops abruptly with a small gasp of pain.
I'm beside her in an instant, my hand at her elbow to steady her. "You pushed it too far."
"I'm fine," she insists, but doesn't pull away from my support.
We're standing close now, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, see the tired lines around her eyes, the fullness of her lips.
"Franco," she says, my name barely above a whisper.
I should step back. I should make an excuse and leave. This woman, with her lovely eyes and direct questions, is dangerous to me in ways that have nothing to do with physical threats. She makes me want things I've denied myself for years. Makes me question the life I've built.
Instead, I remain perfectly still, watching as she makes a decision. She rises on her tiptoes, wincing slightly at the pressure on her ankle, and presses her lips to mine.
The kiss catches me off guard, a gentle pressure that sends heat racing through me. For a moment, I'm frozen, unable to process the fact that Sarah—this woman I barely know, this single mother I helped on a whim—is kissing me.
Then instinct takes over, and I'm kissing her back, one hand moving to her waist to support her, the other cupping her face. She makes a small sound against my mouth, something between a sigh and a moan, and the sound ignites something primal in me.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips until they part for me.
She tastes sweet and intoxicating. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, pulling me closer as if she's afraid I might disappear.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily.
Sarah's eyes are wide, her lips slightly swollen, her cheeks flushed.
She looks surprised, as if she hadn't planned to kiss me but couldn't help herself.
"I shouldn't have done that," she whispers, but makes no move to step away.
"No," I agree, my voice rougher than usual. "You shouldn't have."
Then I'm kissing her again, harder this time, backing her against the wall. She gasps into my mouth, her body arching against mine, igniting a fire in my blood that I haven't felt in years. My hands span her waist, feeling the curves that her baggy clothes had hidden.
"Franco," she breathes against my lips, pulling back slightly. "We have an hour before Tommy gets back. I don't—I haven't—"
"We can stop," I tell her, though it takes considerable effort to say the words. "If that's what you want."
Sarah shakes her head, her eyes half-lidded with desire. "No. I don't want to stop. I just want you to know it's been... a while. And I'm not—" She gestures vaguely at herself. "I'm not what most men expect."
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. "I want you," I say simply. "Not some idea of you."
The words seem to dissolve her hesitation. She kisses me again, her hands moving to the buttons of my shirt with newfound confidence. I let her work them open, her fingers brushing against my skin with each one she frees.
When she pushes the shirt from my shoulders, her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the scars that mark my torso, evidence of fifteen years in Dante's service and my time in the military before that.
"You've been hurt," she says softly, her fingers tracing a particularly vicious scar near my collarbone.
"Occupational hazard," I reply, capturing her hand and bringing it to my lips.
She nods, then surprises me by leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to the scar. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture makes my heart pound faster.
I lift her, mindful of her injured ankle, and carry her to the bedroom. Setting her gently on the edge of the bed, I kneel before her, my hands running up her thighs.
"Is this okay?" I ask, my fingers finding the hem of her sweater.
Sarah nods, lifting her arms so I can pull the garment over her head. Beneath, she wears a simple black bra, nothing fancy but the contrast against her pale skin is enticing enough to make my mouth go dry.
My hands move to the button of her jeans, seeking permission with my eyes before proceeding. She nods again, lifting her hips to help as I ease the denim down her legs, careful of her swollen ankle.
Now she sits before me in just her black underwear, her body fuller than the women I've typically been with, women chosen for convenience rather than connection, encounters I barely remember the next day.
Sarah's body tells the story of her life.
The slight roundness of her belly from carrying her son, the stretch marks on her hips, the strength in her arms from years of hard work.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, meaning it more than I've meant anything in a long time.
A flush spreads across her chest and up her neck. "You don't have to say that."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
I kiss her again, one hand moving to her back to find the clasp of her bra.
I unhook it, drawing the straps down her arms. She shivers as it falls away, exposing her breasts to my gaze.
I cup one breast in my hand, feeling its weight, brushing my thumb across the nipple until it hardens under my touch.
Sarah's head falls back with a soft moan, her hands gripping my shoulders for support.
I lower her to the bed, slowly to position her injured ankle comfortably, then begin to explore her body with my hands and mouth. I trail kisses down her neck to her collarbone, then lower to capture her nipple between my lips. She gasps, arching into me, her hands finding my hair.
"Franco," she breathes, the sound of my name on her lips sending heat straight to my cock.
I take my time with her body, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her fingers tighten in my hair. By the time my mouth reaches the waistband of her panties, she's trembling, her skin flushed with desire.
I look up, seeking confirmation. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her expression a mixture of desire and disbelief.
"Please," she whispers, the single word nearly undoing me.
I ease her black panties down her legs, adding them to the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Then I settle between her thighs, my hands spreading her legs wider to accommodate me.
The scent of her arousal makes my mouth water, a primal response to her desire. I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then higher, working my way toward her wet pussy.
When I reach the apex of her thighs, I look up one more time, finding her watching me with wide, desire-darkened eyes. Maintaining eye contact, I lower my head and taste her for the first time.
The first stroke of my tongue draws a muffled cry from her, her thighs trembling on either side of my head. I grip her hips, holding her steady as I explore her with my mouth, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her push against me seeking more.
Her reactions guide me, the small sounds she tries to suppress, the way her body responds to my touch. I circle her clit with my tongue, feeling her jerk against me, then soothe the sensitive bud with gentle pressure.
"Franco," she gasps, one hand leaving my hair to cover her mouth, muffling her cries. "Oh god, Franco..."