Chapter Twelve – Elaria
The water ripples around me, hot and silken, clinging to my skin like breath.
I sit in his lap. My thighs rest on either side of his knees, brushing slick marble. His body is still beneath me, coiled but patient, as if carved from something older than flesh. Only his eyes move. Watching me.
I can feel him.
Hard beneath the surface. Heavy. Waiting.
My breath hitches.
There’s an ache between my legs that won’t still. A low, pulsing hunger that blooms every time he exhales. My nipples brush and tighten, hypersensitive. Every inch of me is ready, but my mind—my mind is still trying to catch up.
My fingers shake as I reach for his shoulders. They’re broad, blood-warmed but still marked from battle. My hands splay over him, searching, anchoring.
Is this mine?
Is this her?
Flashes flicker.
Giovanna’s laughter—soft, teasing, echoed off marble just like this. Her hands sliding through his hair. Her moans—my moans? I can’t tell anymore. I feel them in my hips, in my breath, in the wild thrum of my pulse.
But it’s me here now.
My chest lifts with a shuddered inhale. I shift forward, water lapping at my waist. I slide closer until the softness of my stomach brushes the lean plane of his abdomen.
He doesn’t move.
But I feel him.
The tension in his thighs beneath mine, the slight flex of his fingers on the marble edge like he’s holding back something feral.
I want him.
And yes—Giovanna’s memories live in me.
But so do mine.
And mine want him, too.
Not as a stolen echo.
As mine.
I open my eyes.
His gaze meets mine.
My hands find each other first—fingers lacing, palms pressed together in a silent act of grounding. Of gathering. Of claiming my focus. Then I reach forward, slipping my locked hands beneath the surface, feeling the warm water part as I slide between his thighs.
He doesn’t stop me.
Doesn’t move.
But his breath changes.
I find his cock, hard and heavy, the skin smooth beneath my knuckles as I wrap both hands around him. I stroke, wrists pivoting in time with each drag of my fingers down his length. The water makes it sensual, like silk over heat. He thickens in my grip, twitching as I squeeze a little tighter.
I glance up.
His eyes are half-lidded, jaw clenched, chest rising with sharp breaths. He’s watching me. Watching my hands move under the water, the subtle rocking of my body as I lean in closer.
He exhales—long and low—and his hips shift just enough to push into my grip. A silent permission. A surrender.
I stroke him again, tighter this time, the water lapping softly around us. My thumb traces the ridge just beneath the head. A small movement, but I feel it like a reward.
I sink lower in the tub.
My hair floats on the surface as I kneel between his thighs, and the water sways gently around me. I don’t break eye contact. Not yet. I hold it for a moment longer, until I see the flicker behind his gaze—the one that says he’s barely holding on.
Then I dip my head.
I close my lips around the tip of his cock, tasting him—warm skin, salt. His hips jerk, restrained but urgent, as I lower my mouth farther, taking him deeper, letting him feel my tongue, pressing him against the roof of my mouth.
His groan rumbles above me, low and raw.
I suck, tongue dragging beneath his shaft, hands still wrapped around the base. I feel every twitch, every subtle flex of his thighs around me, the tension in his abs as he holds still. He’s letting me take control, letting me worship him on my terms—and it turns me on more than I can admit.
I move my mouth in pulses, cheeks hollowing, then releasing, drawing more of him in until the tip kisses the back of my throat. I hum just softly, and he shudders.
His hand moves, fingertips brushing my hair like he’s grounding himself. Something about this—the warmth, the silence, the way he comes undone for me—feels like I’ve lived it before.
His cock fills my mouth, warm and rigid, the tip swollen against my tongue. I start—tongue pressed flat beneath him as I suck gently, cheeks hollowing with each pull. I feel every vein along his shaft, the soft skin stretched taut, the heat radiating from him like a pulse.
I draw back until just the head rests on my lips, then swirl my tongue around it—circles that tease the underside. He groans above me, and his thighs tense on either side of my shoulders.
I drag my tongue lower, down the underside of his cock, tracing the thick ridge, then back up again in one long stroke. I repeat it—lick, alternating pressure—tasting salt, water, and the heat of his need.
His hand finds the back of my head.
His hips shift forward slightly, and I let him in deeper, my mouth relaxing as he fills the space. My throat stretches to take him, and he groans again, this time louder, more broken.
I choke just faintly, but I don’t pull back.
I want him deeper. Want to feel the way he lets go when he stops trying to control it.
I suck harder, tongue fluttering beneath the head, pressing upward, massaging every inch I can reach. He starts to breathe faster, hand tightening in my hair, guiding me with short thrusts of his hips—testing how much I’ll take.
And then—I feel her. Not physically, she is in my head.
“Curl your tongue under the head. Hold it there… then flutter. Small strokes. Let him feel it… right there.”
I just listen.
And I do exactly what she says.
I curl my tongue under the ridge of his cock—right beneath the tip—and suck gently, holding it in place. Then I flutter. Tiny movements. His entire body reacts.
He gasps, his grip tightens in my hair. His hips jerk forward, cock plunging deeper into my throat. I gag softly, but take it. His thighs are flexed, jaw clenched, and I feel the tension coil like a storm inside him.
He starts to thrust.
Not violently. But with rhythm. Purpose. His cock slides into my throat again and again, using my mouth like he can’t help it. Like I’ve taken away his control.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t stop. I hold steady. I let him fuck my mouth, my hands gripping his thighs, throat flexing around him.
He rises from the tub first, water sheeting off his body in rivulets that trace every line of his chest, his thighs, his still-hard cock. He towers above me, breath ragged, eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on mine as he reaches down, wet fingers curling around my wrist.
No words.
He just pulls.
I follow, naked and dripping, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. My legs are unsteady, not from the water, but from everything he’s already taken from me—and everything I know he’s about to claim next.
We step out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind us, skin gleaming. He walks me across the room, water slicking our footsteps. The light is low, soft, but enough to cast shadows over the bed, the wall—over the mirror atop the vanity table he leads me to.
He presses me forward until my palms meet the cool wood surface.
The mirror reflects both of us: me bent forward, hair clinging to my shoulders, nipples tight from the temperature and anticipation, thighs glistening. And him behind me—broad, dripping, cock heavy and full, hanging between his legs as he steps closer.
I keep my eyes on the mirror.
I watch him watch me.
His hands smooth over the curve of my ass, spreading me open. Then his fingers are there—again—sliding through my slick folds as if he’s reacquainting himself with what’s already his.
One finger slips in.
Then two.
They curl, deep knuckles grazing my entrance as his palm grinds against my clit. My mouth parts. I moan softly. My head falls forward, but he grips my hip with his other hand and pulls—a silent demand that I look.
So I do.
I meet his eyes in the mirror as his fingers fuck me from behind, the sound obscene in the quiet room. My thighs tremble. My breath fogs the mirror. His fingers curl again, right there, stroking that spot that makes my knees buckle.
And then he pulls out.
Then his cock presses against me the next breath, thick and hot at my entrance. He doesn’t ease in. He pushes hard—one deep, unrelenting thrust that fills me in one stroke. I cry out, eyes wide in the glass, watching the way my body takes him.
He’s inside me, deep, and he doesn’t stop. He thrusts again.
And again.
Wet skin slaps wet skin. My breasts bounce with every movement. His hands slide up, bold and rough, cupping them from behind, squeezing hard. His fingers roll over my nipples as he fucks me deep, bending lower over my back, his chest hot against my spine.
Our reflections blur from motion, from sweat, from steam.
My hands grip the vanity, knuckles white against the polished surface, palms slipping on the gloss as he thrusts into me—the sound of our bodies colliding echoing through the room. His cock drags against every aching nerve inside me, thick and relentless.
He shifts angles—adjusts his grip on my hips, plants his feet wider—and the next thrust slams into a spot so deep I choke on my breath, hips jerking back involuntarily. I gasp, loud, guttural, eyes fluttering in the mirror as pleasure jolts through me like electricity.
Each thrust punches a soft cry from my throat. My breasts swing with the rhythm, thighs slick and shaking, body open and taken. His fingers dig into my waist like he’s molding me into place, holding me still as he uses me.
Then he pulls out.
He’s already moving—gripping my arm, spinning me gently. I stumble back with him, breath ragged, until the cool wall kisses my spine. He presses me there, one hand on my hip, the other curled in my hair, anchoring me.
I flatten my palms to the wall, tilt my head back, let him see me.
He lifts my leg, hooks it around his waist, and thrusts into me again in one fluid motion.
I cry out—his cock pushing so deep I feel him in my stomach. My back arches off the wall. My hands scramble for something to hold, but there's only him.
He fucks me like that—standing, wild, teeth gritted, body slick with sweat. My wet skin sticks to the plaster behind me, breath caught between our chests. Every thrust hits deeper. Angled. Brutal. Controlled chaos.
Then he grips my hair and yanks my head to the side—not painfully, but rough enough to make my breath hitch.
And he bites.
His mouth latches onto my neck, teeth sinking in just enough to blur pain into pleasure. My pussy clenches hard around him as he sucks there, marking me, moaning into my skin like he’s starving for it.
I writhe under him.
He releases my neck with a final bite, a deep groan vibrating against my skin. I’m already breathless, my legs trembling, my thighs slick with sweat and everything he’s fucked out of me—but he’s not done.
He pulls out again and grabs my wrist, dragging me across the room toward the bed. I stumble after him, dazed, aching, greedy. He lets me fall onto the mattress chest-first, but before I can move, he flips me with one hand and arranges me like a fucking display.
He hooks my legs up—one knee bent, the other stretched wide—then lifts my hips and slides a pillow beneath my lower back, tilting my pelvis high and open. I’m flat on my back, spine slightly arched, pussy spread and aching, thighs parted so wide I can feel the stretch in my groin.
Then—his hands grab my ankles.
He pushes them forward, folding me in half until my knees press almost to my shoulders. His body looms over mine, cock already thick again, flushed, shining with slick and need.
This angle—this pose—it’s not gentle. It’s raw. Exposing.
My cunt pulses, completely open to him. He looks down at me—eyes dark, jaw tight—and then he thrusts.
All the way in.
His cock slams into me so deep I swear I go blind for a second. The angle pushes every inch into me, grinding hard against my cervix, his hips flat to my ass, pelvis crushing down as he folds me tighter.
My hands grab the sheets. My breath tears out of my lungs.
He fucks me in this position like he can’t get deep enough. His hands press my thighs back, locking me in place, using my own body as leverage to drive in—hard, punishing thrusts that punch sounds from my throat I’ve never made before.
The slap of skin is brutal.
His balls smack against my ass with every stroke, and my pussy is stretched so tight I feel every ridge, every vein, every twitch of him inside me.
I cry out again, head thrown back, throat exposed.
He leans over me, lets one hand slide between my legs, finds my clit with ruthless precision. He rubs exactly how I need it, and my orgasm slams into me like a wave breaking through bone.
I spasm under him—screaming, breathless, shaking—my pussy clenching around his cock as he keeps fucking me through it, thrust after thrust pushing me past the edge until all I can do is take it.
And he doesn't stop until he's coming too—hard, groaning into the skin of my calf, cock pulsing deep inside me, hips jerking through every wave of it.
His body sinks over me, sweat-slick chest pressed to mine, his breath pouring out hot and ragged against my throat. We’re still tangled, still pulsing from the aftershocks, skin sticking to skin, heartbeats thundering in time.
Our mouths crash, hungry and wet. His lips drag across mine, and I open for him instinctively—no thought—just need. His kiss is all breath and heat and claiming. He sucks on my bottom lip, then groans into my mouth like he can’t get enough, like kissing me is the only thing keeping him grounded.
Our mouths move together, messy and aching, tongues tangling, teeth clashing in soft gasps. I taste sweat. His hand strokes down my side—hip to thigh, then back up again—and his touch is no longer rough. It’s reverent. Possessive. His fingers find the slick between my legs, still wet, still dripping, and he doesn’t wait.
He pulls out and slides a finger into me.
Just one.
My body tenses immediately, pussy fluttering around the intrusion, overstimulated and open. I moan into his mouth, hips twitching. He kisses me deeper, breath caught in his throat, and begins to fuck me with that one finger—gentle but steady, the wet sound of it obscene in the silence.
Then he shifts lower.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing hot kisses down my throat, along my collarbone, until he finds my breast. He licks a circle around my nipple, then sucks it deep into his mouth, groaning low as his tongue flicks across the tip. The suction is hot and firm, and I gasp, hand flying to his hair as he keeps moving his finger inside me.
His mouth worships my breast, teeth grazing, tongue flattening, lips wet and hungry. The heat of him overwhelms me. The feel of his finger inside me—curling just so—the wet glide of it, the intimacy of it after everything we’ve just done—it’s almost too much.
But I don’t pull away.
I arch into it.
I let him take what’s left of me.
And he kisses like he never plans to stop.
*****
Sunlight cuts through the curtains in a crawl, warm across my bare back.
The sheets are soft—clean—and tangled low around my hips. My limbs ache in the most exquisite way. A hum of tenderness in the muscles, a leftover echo of the night. Of how his mouth moved across my body like it was reading scripture. Of how I opened for him, again and again, until I forgot where I ended and he began.
He’s sitting at the foot of the bed.
T-shirt. Jeans. Barefoot.
A small, worn envelope dangles from his fingers.
He lifts it slightly when he notices I’m awake, one brow raised.
I stretch, unabashed, the sheets slipping lower. My breasts bare, skin still flushed from the heat of sleep. I sit up, unhurried, and reach for the envelope.
He watches.
Inside are two passes—bold typography across the top: Carlton vs Richmond. AFL. The kind of match that draws screaming crowds and beer-stained jerseys. Not exactly opera or cocktails—but he’s watching me for my reaction.
I look at the envelope, confused, and then him. He lifts a piece of fabric, a silk mask cut at the eyes, and covers my face.
His lips curve in a smile. I glance at the clock.
1:42 PM.
I exhale a laugh through my nose.
So this is what it feels like to sleep after being wrecked. I don’t even remember closing my eyes.
I slide out of bed, still naked. I can feel his eyes on my back as I cross to the bathroom.
The tub is gleaming, the water drained.
I don’t look at it.
I see it anyway—my thighs wrapped around his waist, his hands pressing me down, his breath on my shoulder, the water sloshing against porcelain.
I turn the shower on instead.
The water is hot. Not punishing, just sharp enough to wake me. I stand under the stream, letting it wash away the sweat, the ache, the memory I want to keep but can’t carry all day.
When I step back into the bedroom, a dress waits for me.
Not too formal. Not lazy either.
A soft cream tone, with thin straps and a low back. The kind of thing meant for daylight. For crowds. For being seen.
I hold it up. The hanger is still warm from his touch.
He’s back at the chair, elbows on his knees. Watching.
I slip it over my head.
The fabric brushes my thighs, whispers against my hips. I pull it into place, glancing once at the mirror.
He doesn’t speak. Of course he doesn’t.
But he watches the way it moves on me.
And for a second, I see her.
Giovanna. In this same mirror. Pulling a sleeve over her shoulder. Turning to ask if it looked too tight.
I blink.
The image is gone.
But the way he’s watching, like memory and wonder—it lingers.
I sit before the mirror, brushing out my hair.
He doesn’t look away. He stands, eyes fixed on me and he hands me the mask, watching as I place the piece of fabric over my face. Then his hand finds mine.
He leads me down the hall. The corridor smells faintly of polished wood and whatever cologne lingers on his shirt.
We're halfway past the second landing when the door to one of the guest rooms creaks open.
Lorenzo appears.
Bare-chested. Sleep-rumpled. In boxers.
A red-faced woman clings to his side, lips swollen, mascara smudged like a confession.
She giggles and disappears behind him.
Lorenzo raises an eyebrow. His gaze drops to our hands.
Then he smirks—tight, pointed, unwilling to say anything but saying everything.
“You’re giving her a ticket?” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Not me?”
Lorenzo’s smirk lingers. He nods, once, more to himself than us, then closes the door behind him.
Cassian doesn’t let go of my hand.
The car is parked under the western eaves of the drive. Pale light flickers off its polished surface. He opens the door for me, one hand resting at the small of my back as I slip in. His palm lingers there—a little longer than necessary.
When he closes the door, the world falls into a hush again.
The stadium is alive by the time we arrive. Carlton colors everywhere—scarves, flags, painted faces, the low roar of chatter building toward something electric.
People nod when they see him.
Some clap him on the back, others move aside without being asked.
A few just stare—too long, like they’re unsure what to make of seeing him here. No one pays attention to me.
Security waves us through. No metal detectors. No checks.
We’re led past the crowd, through a glass-paneled corridor, and into a private box with wide glass windows and high-backed seats. The view is perfect.
Someone brings us drinks—sparkling water for him, something citrus for me.
He doesn’t touch his, just watches the field.
I sit beside him, legs crossed, hands folded in my lap. The crowd surges. Anthem. Whistle.
The game begins.
The flash comes without warning.
Giovanna again—beside him, blue scarf knotted loosely at her throat, paint on her cheeks. She leans over him, whispering something.
And he laughs.
A full, open laugh. Head thrown back. Hands clapping once, then again.
He stands, cheers, roars when a goal is scored.
In the memory, he’s alive in a way I’ve never seen him.
The vision pulls away like breath on glass.
Now—he sits beside me.
Same man. Same seat. But still.
No clapping. No shouting.
His jaw is relaxed, eyes on the game, one hand resting on his thigh, the other curled near mine on the seat between us. He watches it all like a man remembering, not experiencing.
And I wonder—
Who were you then?
And why does some part of me—quiet and ashamed—ache to be what you were before the silence?
****
The crowd begins to thin—streams of laughter, crushed soda cups, the last echoes of victory ringing off the stadium walls. Cassian stands first, hand extended, his palm open to me like a question.
I place mine in his without thinking.
His fingers close around mine. My dress clings a little at the thighs. The mask still shields most of my face. We move down the corridor, past security, past families buzzing from the high. No one stops us. No one dares. Cassian’s presence carves space like a blade through mist.
Then—
A voice. Smooth. Measured.
“Now, son—”
Cassian’s hand tightens instantly around mine.
“—you couldn’t be bothered to sit with your poor uncle? We could’ve watched the game together. I even bought snacks this time.”
Cassian stops. And so do I.
My heart stutters.
Standing in the middle of the hallway, backlit by exit signs, is a tall man in a navy coat—three-piece, charcoal tie, lapel pin shining like bone.
Dante Rivetti.
I haven’t seen his face until now.
But I know him.
My spine locks. Instinct roars through me before logic can catch up. I step slightly behind Cassian.
Just enough to hide in his shadow.
Dante’s gaze flicks to me.
“Well now,” he drawls. “Who’s this?”
He tilts his head. Eyes scan beneath the line of my mask.
Cassian doesn’t move.
He leans forward.
The space between him and Dante narrows.
Dante notices. He pauses. One brow lifts in amusement, but there's tension. Barely veiled.
His hand starts to lift—toward me. He steps, subtly, in front of me.
His hand doesn’t leave mine.
Dante watches. Then—before he can press further—a younger man in a navy overcoat rushes to his side. He leans in, whispers something low.
Dante listens. Then straightens.
“Another time,” he says, eyes still on Cassian. “We’ll talk properly.”
He turns his attention back to me. “Treat my nephew well, young lady,” he murmurs. His gaze lingers. “The Rivettis are kings.”
And then he’s gone.
The moment stretches long after his footsteps fade.
My breath releases only when Cassian gently pulls me forward again, hand still locked with mine. He doesn’t look back.
The car is quiet when we get in. The doors shut with a soft, final click.
Outside, city noise fades into the distance—only the hum of the engine and the pulse of my heartbeat remain.
Cassian reaches for the window controls. Glass slides up with a smooth whir, closing us off from the world.
The mask still clings to my skin, damp with breath, pressed tight across the bridge of my nose.
His hand lifts. Fabric slips away from my face like silk falling off a wound. He holds my gaze as he removes it completely—his eyes searching mine, not rushing, not retreating.
He lifts one hand.
Fingers move.
A sign.
Two taps to the chest. A tilt of his head.
Are you okay?
I don’t know sign.
Not truly.
But I know what he’s saying.
I’ve felt this before—through Giovanna’s memories, behind her eyes. She once watched him kneel beside her, the same gesture after a fever, after a fight, after a night of silence. I see her, wrapped in blankets. I see him signing that same question.
She smiled.
So do I.
I nod once. Not just to him. To her, too.
“Beach,” I murmur, voice small.
His eyes hold mine.
Then he nods.
****
The sun is dipping. Burnt orange across the sky, light catching on scattered clouds like smudged ash. The car pulls up near the dunes. No other lights. No other cars. Just the stretch of ocean ahead and the long empty curve of sand.
He opens my door before I reach for the handle. Offers his hand. I take it.
The sand is cool beneath our feet. We leave our shoes behind.
The wind lifts my hair and carries salt across my lips.
He walks beside me. Not ahead. Not behind. Just near enough that our fingers brush.
The waves hush against the shore like they’re afraid to interrupt.
We stop and sit near a cluster of rocks, tucked between two dunes. Airy. Hidden.
I look out at the sea.
The question leaves me before I can think better of it.
“You loved her?”
He doesn’t flinch.
“What about me?”
It stretches between us, taut like a string pulled between fingertips.
He doesn’t look away.
Not from me.
Not this time.
“Can you love me?” I ask. “Can you love both of us?”
The question burns on the way out.
It isn’t just about him.
It’s about my father, riddled with bullets before I could forgive him.
It’s about my mother leaving behind answers buried in stone and letters.
It’s about Giovanna—beautiful, reckless, loved. A sister I barely knew, and yet mourn like half my soul was buried with her.
The tears come before I feel them.
A single drop streaks down my cheek.
Cassian scoots closer.
He lifts a hand—doesn’t wipe it away.
Instead, he leans in and presses his lips to the damp path beneath my eye.
A kiss. Gentle. Salt and warmth.
Another to my other eye.
Then my nose.
Soft, breath brushing skin.
We’re barely touching, but every inch of air between us feels charged—like lightning waiting for permission.
Finally, his mouth finds mine.
I climb into his lap, knees sinking into the sand on either side of him, the wind catching my dress and lifting it like breath. His hands go to my hips instinctively, steadying me, grounding me. But he doesn't pull me closer. He waits.
My chest brushes his. I kiss him again—deeper.
My hands roam up the crisp cotton of his shirt, fingers pressing over his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath fabric and bone. I kiss him like I need to steal that rhythm, to know what it feels like to live inside his pulse, just for a moment.
I find the first button and undo it. Then the next. My fingers fumble—not because I’m nervous, but because I’m burning. Every inch of skin I reveal feels sacred. His collarbone, warm and golden in the dipping light. The slope of his chest, lightly dusted with hair. The edge of a scar that disappears beneath the fabric I haven’t pushed aside yet.
I lean in, inhaling him.
My lips press to his throat, just under his jaw, where his pulse beats. I taste him there. His breath hitches. His fingers tighten slightly on my hips, not enough to bruise, but enough to feel.
I slide my hands under his shirt—palms flat to his bare chest, dragging down over hard muscle, over the center of him. His skin is warm, smooth, alive under my touch. I trace every dip, every tense line, learning him by feel. I press my nose to the hollow of his shoulder and breathe him in again.
He exhales softly, his mouth brushing my temple, then my jaw. His hands roam up my sides, over the curve of my waist, anchoring me in his lap.
My fingers slip lower, exploring the taut skin of his stomach, the flex of him beneath touch. I want to be greedy. I want to press my mouth to every inch I uncover. I want to taste salt and sweat and wind.
His hands slide under my dress, palms warm and rough against my thighs. Fingertips trailing upward until they reach the damp fabric between my legs. He doesn’t hesitate. Just finds the edge of my panties and pushes them aside, baring me to the cool air and his heat.
He leans back slightly, enough to reach between us. I hear the sound of his belt unfastening, the quiet hiss of his zipper drawn down. His pants shift low on his hips, exposing him, hard and ready—thick heat pressed between us, pulsing against the inside of my thigh.
I raise my hips just enough to shift, to guide myself over him.
The head of his cock nudges against my entrance—hot, thick, slick from me—and I let myself sink down.
My mouth parts in a soft, shaky groan.
The stretch is deep. Immediate. My walls pulse around him as I lower onto his length, inch by inch, until I’m seated fully in his lap, stuffed and filled and aching in the best way.
His head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, jaw clenched tight.
I lean forward, kissing him softly.
Just mouths moving together, breath caught between us, tongues barely brushing. I rock my hips gently, grinding into him, circling. The sensation is all-consuming—his cock dragging inside me, thick and hard and perfect, pressing into every spot that makes my toes curl.
He groans low, deep in his chest, hands gripping my waist, thumbs stroking over my ribs beneath the fabric of my dress.
I move in rhythm, up and down, hips rising just enough before dropping again, the sound of our bodies meeting muffled by sand, skin, and the hush of the ocean.
I kiss him through it all.
Mouth to mouth. Breath to breath.
His arms come around me fully, wrapping me in heat and strength as I move on top of him. His hands are wide—one pressed to the small of my back, the other splayed between my shoulder blades, holding me close, like he needs to feel every breath I take against his chest.
I melt into the cradle of his body, hips still rolling in rhythm, buried deep, but it’s not just about friction—it’s about connection. His chest rises beneath mine, his skin damp against my breasts, our pulses thudding in uneven sync.
He leans in, mouth brushing my collarbone first—warm and open. Then he kisses lower, lips pressing just beneath the swell of my breast. I inhale sharply, breath catching as his tongue flicks over my skin, then his lips close around the peak, and he sucks gently.
My body arches. I moan softly, the sound caught between surprise and surrender.
His hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into the mess of my hair. He gathers it, reverently, and parts it with a tenderness that shatters me. He pushes it to one side, exposing my throat, my shoulder, the curve of my neck—and he kisses there next.
He traces the underside of my jaw with his lips, then finds the hollow just beneath my ear and stays there, breathing me in like he’s memorizing every part.
His fingers tighten slightly in my hair—not rough, but possessive—and I can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds me, as he kisses me, as if this closeness undoes him too.
I keep moving on him, aching, as his mouth moves from my throat to my shoulder, back to my chest, like he can’t choose where to worship next.
And all I can do is hold on.
To the rhythm.
To him.
The way he makes me feel like I’m something he never wants to let go.