Chapter 9 – Almeria
I keep a mental list of reasons why I shouldn’t want him.
It grows longer by the day. And there’s always one reason that sits at the top.
But no matter how many justifications I pile onto the scale—memories of that alley, the humiliating way he treated me after reading my diary, the years of silence—I can’t seem to balance out the way my body betrays me every time he enters a room.
The years of silence weren’t his fault. I was the one who wanted to remain hidden and invisible. And to be fair, he did say he had been looking for me after figuring out what had happened that night.
He doesn’t even have to say anything. Just exists. Takes up space like the air itself bends to him.
And maybe, in a way, I’ve always been breathing him in.
That scares me more than anything.
Gaspare has been around more lately.
He doesn’t live in the mansion with us. Not technically. But lately, it sure feels like he does. His scent lingers long after he leaves—leather and cedar and something distinctly his. Something only I can smell.
He stops by “just to check in.” Almost daily. Helps Luca with his homework. Sits with me in the evening and watches the fireplace burn like it’s telling secrets. Almost like this is not just my safe house, but his too.
And he doesn’t push. Not anymore.
Which makes it worse. Because restraint looks better on him than power ever did.
He’s changed from the bratty young adult he was back then. The person I remembered him as for years.
I don’t want to see it.
I shouldn’t. But I do. Even when I’m not looking.
The way he looks at Luca like he’s something sacred.
The way he looks at me like I’m something he’s afraid to touch, but can’t stop wanting.
One night, after putting Luca to bed, I walk into the kitchen and find Gaspare there—leaning against the island, sipping tea like he belongs in this house.
We’d been out today in the park after picking Luca up from school and I can see he’s trying to patch the ball that burst in their hard game of dodgeball.
I know the guards that move with me while pretending they don’t know me report my every move to him. So I wasn’t surprised when he showed up at the park.
But I was definitely surprised that he took off his shirt and got into play mode with Luca and some of the other children my son made fast friends with in the thirty minutes we were there before Gaspare arrived.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees me.
“You’re still awake.”
“So are you,” I point out. “You don’t have to do that now, you know? The kid’s got other balls.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Might as well put my awake self to good use.”
I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter across from him. The silence stretches, thick and warm.
“What’s really going on?” I ask.
He studies me. That quiet, calculating stare.
“I came to see you today at the park. Not just to play with Luca.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“You don’t have to keep checking on us, you know. We’re safe here.”
His jaw ticks. “It’s not just about safety.”
Of course it isn’t.
He moves closer. Not a lot. Just a step.
“I think about you,” he says, voice low. “More than I should.”
I swallow hard. “Don’t.”
But I don’t move away.
“I know I hurt you,” he continues. “And I’ll never be able to erase that. But if I could change it—if I could go back—”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
The quiet between us vibrates like a plucked string.
His eyes flicker to my lips.
I can’t breathe.
“I want you to want me,” he murmurs, “not because you have to—but because you feel it.”
My heart is pounding. I can hear it in my ears.
“Gaspare—”
And then his mouth is on mine.
His lips part mine gently, coaxing, asking. I let him in.
My hands slide up his chest, curling into his shirt. He groans softly against my mouth, pulling me closer. The heat between us sparks into flame.
When he lifts me onto the counter, I gasp.
His fingers skim beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing the bare skin of my waist.
He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet mine.
I nod quickly, before he takes his hands off me.
And the world disappears.
But not the way it did before years ago when another man’s hands were on my body.
Gaspare undresses me slowly.
Like each inch of skin he reveals is a gift he’s never believed he deserved. When his fingers trail over the curve of my waist, I tremble.
Not from fear.
From want.
There’s something sacred in his touch. Not a man taking what he believes is his. A man cherishing what he’s been allowed to hold.
He kisses my collarbone, his breath warm and shallow. Then lower, to the swell of my breast. He pauses there, pressing his forehead against my chest, just for a second.
“Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he whispers.
It doesn’t.
It feels right in a way I never thought this could again.
When I was assaulted, it was pain. Shame. Powerlessness.
But this?
This is mine.
This is me choosing to feel.
I can ask to stop and he will immediately. I remember the night we kissed and I asked.
But why don’t I want this to stop right now?
He trails his mouth lower, his tongue tasting as his lips explore. I arch into him, gasping when he sucks softly, teeth grazing without ever hurting. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging gently, guiding him.
He groans—low and rough—and it goes straight through me.
When he lifts his head and looks at me, I see it all. The tension. The hunger. The restraint.
“I want to be gentle,” he says hoarsely.
I nod again. “You are.”
He slides his hand between my thighs, parting me with careful, deliberate movements. His fingers find me already wet and throbbing, and the sound he makes is primal.
I let out a shaky breath as he circles slowly—light, teasing touches that make my body pulse. My hips buck, chasing him.
He doesn’t rush.
He draws it out.
He watches every reaction like it’s his life’s work to memorize them.
“God, Almeria,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect.”
He brings me to the edge with just his hands and mouth, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure until I’m trembling, breathless, my body begging for more.
When he finally pushes inside me, he does it slowly—inch by inch—his eyes locked on mine the whole time.
I gasp. He groans.
The stretch burns at first, but it’s sweet. Full. Right. So different from the first time I was ever touched this way. That night was cold, cruel, brutal. A theft.
This? This is giving. This is choice. This is being worshipped, body and soul.
Gaspare rocks into me with a slow, grinding rhythm that builds a fire low in my belly. He kisses me between every thrust—my jaw, my throat, my lips—as if he needs to keep grounding himself in me.
Our bodies move in sync. Fluid. Sensual. Desperate and tender all at once.
He grips my hip with one hand, the other sliding between us again to rub that aching, sensitive spot with practiced precision.
“Come for me,” he rasps. “I want to feel you.”
My release hits hard.
I cry out, clinging to him, my legs tightening around his waist. My whole body clenches around him, drawing him deeper, and he loses control with a low growl, thrusting harder until he follows me over the edge, spilling into me with a shudder.
We collapse into each other, tangled in sweat and silence. His face presses against my neck, lips grazing my skin as he breathes, calming his body.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Because right now, we don’t need words.
We only need this moment—the stillness after the storm, the peace that wasn’t stolen, the choice that was finally ours. Mine.