45. Pietro
Pietro
She’s quiet. Too quiet.
Not guarded—just spent. Hollowed out by memory and truth.
I want to reach for her, but I wait.
Let her come to me.
We reach the safe house just before midnight. It’s quiet, moonlight spilling through gauzy curtains. She disappears into the shower, and I pour a drink I won’t finish.
When she steps out, wrapped in a towel, her eyes find mine.
Still no words.
Just the soft click of the door locking behind her.
She drops the towel.
Walks to me–climbs into my lap like she’s claiming something that’s always been hers.
Her lips part over mine, hungry and I take her with the kind of desperation that comes from nearly losing her too many times. She rides me, pushing me deeper into her core.
We make love in silence, not because there’s nothing to say—every inch of me aching with the need to prove what words can’t hold. But because this says everything.
My fingers tangle in her hair as she arches, surrendering and commanding all at once. I catch one nipple in my mouth–tease it with my tongue and pinch the other. We move like a secret language–fierce, tender, raw–until there is nothing left but her name in my mouth.
Our bodies lock as she cries out, and I follow–helpless, undone, lost in the rush of her. The world shatters around us, time suspended, every heartbeat a promise. We cling to each other in the aftershock, breathless and trembling.
Every time she ran, I chased.
Tonight, there’s no chasing.
Only choosing.
“Valaria,” I say. “Shove that damn drive into your laptop.”
“Come with me,” she says.