Chapter 8 #3
I release his shirt with one hand and slide my fingers into his wrecked hair, gripping the dark waves. His lips are parted, and his chest is heaving, and he looks nothing like the charming man who walked into The River Club and made me an offer I shouldn't have accepted.
I crash my mouth against his. The kiss is not gentle.
It's not the careful, exploratory press of lips that usually begins our encounters—those times when he's charming and I'm guarded and we both pretend this is just physical.
This is something else entirely. This is my teeth catching his bottom lip and tugging.
This is his sharp inhale of surprise that dissolves into a groan that vibrates through both of us.
This is my tongue sweeping into his mouth and tasting him—whiskey and desperation and something sweeter underneath that I've never let myself notice before.
His hands tighten on my waist, fingers digging into the denim hard enough that I'll probably find bruises tomorrow.
He pulls me against him, and I feel the hard length of his body pressed against mine—his chest solid against my breasts, his hips flush with my hips, his thighs bracketing mine.
The counter edge digs into my lower back, and I don't care.
The pain is grounding. It reminds me this is real, this is happening, this man who says he needs me is kissing me back like I'm air and he's been drowning.
He takes control of the kiss—his tongue sliding against mine, his head tilting to change the angle, his teeth scraping across my lower lip in a way that sends sparks shooting down my spine.
One of his hands leaves my waist and slides up my back, pressing between my shoulder blades, holding me against him like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, the word half-swallowed by our kiss. "Nova—"
"Don't talk." I bite his lip again, harder this time, and his hips jerk against mine in response.
The hard ridge of his cock presses against my belly through his pants, and I feel a pulse of heat between my own thighs—my body responding to his with an urgency that matches the frantic rhythm of his heart under my palm.
"You've been talking for ten minutes. Just—shut up and kiss me. "
He laughs, and this time it's not broken.
It's surprised and relieved and so fucking genuine that I feel it echo through my own chest. Then his mouth is on mine again, and his hands are sliding down to grip my ass, lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion.
The edge of the counter bites into the backs of my knees.
Romeo steps between my spread legs, and his hips press forward, grinding his cock against the seam of my jeans.
The friction sends a jolt of pleasure through my core, and I gasp into his mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs, his lips trailing across my jaw to my neck. His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin below my ear, and I shiver. "Let me hear you."
"You're not in charge here," I manage, but my voice comes out breathless and unconvincing. My hands are in his hair again, tugging his head back so I can return the favor—biting along the column of his throat, tasting the salt of his sweat, feeling his pulse race under my tongue.
"Never said I was." His hands slide under my t-shirt, palms hot against my bare skin, and I arch into his touch.
His fingers trace the curve of my waist, the ridges of my ribs, the band of my bra.
He's not rushing—he's mapping me, learning me, even though he's touched me before.
This feels different. This feels like claiming.
"You pulled me to you, remember? You're the one who—"
I silence him with another kiss, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. His hips buck against mine, and I feel the wet heat building between my thighs, my pussy aching for contact that my jeans are denying me.
His hands keep moving under my shirt, pushing the fabric up, and I raise my arms so he can pull it over my head.
The cool air hits my skin for barely a second before his mouth is on me—kissing across my collarbone, down the swell of my breast above my bra, his tongue tracing the edge of the lace.
I lean back on my hands, the counter hard beneath my palms, and watch him worship my body with a reverence that makes my throat tight.
He reaches behind me with one hand and unclasps my bra with a flick of his wrist—practiced, smooth, and I'd make a joke about it if I could think clearly enough to form words.
The fabric falls away, and his eyes darken as he takes me in.
My nipples are already hard, peaked in the cool air and aching for his touch.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and the word sounds different from his usual compliments. Less charm, more awe. Like he's seeing me for the first time.
His mouth closes over my left nipple, and I cry out—my back arching, my hand flying to the back of his head to hold him there.
His tongue circles the tight peak, then flicks across it before he sucks hard, drawing the sensitive flesh deep into the wet heat of his mouth.
His other hand comes up to cup my right breast, his thumb rolling the nipple, and the dual sensation has my hips grinding against him of their own accord.
"Oh fuck—" The words escape me on a moan, my head falling back. "Romeo—"
"Mmm." The vibration of his hum against my breast sends another pulse of heat straight to my core. He switches sides, his mouth finding my other nipple while his fingers continue to tease the first, pinching and rolling until I'm squirming against the counter, desperate for more contact.
His free hand slides down my stomach, fingers tracing the line of my waistband before popping the button of my jeans. The zipper follows, and then his hand is sliding inside, under the fabric of my panties, and his fingers find me wet and ready.
His voice is rough, strained. "You're soaked."
"Your point?" I manage, but I'm panting now, my hips lifting to press against his hand. His fingers slide through my slick folds, finding my clit, and he circles it with a touch that's too light, too teasing.
"My point is—" He pushes one finger inside me, and I gasp, my inner walls clenching around him. "—that you want this as much as I do."
"I wouldn't have pulled you to me if I didn't—" My words dissolve into a moan as he adds a second finger, stretching me, his thumb finding my clit and pressing in tight circles that have my thighs trembling on either side of his hips.
He fucks me slowly with his fingers, each thrust deliberate, his thumb maintaining that maddening rhythm on my clit. His mouth returns to my breast, tongue and teeth working my nipple until I'm writhing against the counter, my hands gripping the edge hard enough that my knuckles go white.
"Tell me what you need." He lifts his head from my breast, his eyes meeting mine—green and dark and so focused on me that I feel like I'm the only thing in his world. "Tell me."
"You." The word comes out raw and honest in a way I didn't intend. "I need you. All of you."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a surrender.
He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss, but then he's reaching for his belt, his movements hurried and graceless in a way I've never seen from him.
The leather hisses through the loops, the buckle clinks, and then his pants are open and he's pushing them down just enough to free his cock.
He's hard—fully, achingly hard, the head flushed and glistening with pre-cum. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his shaft, and he groans, his forehead dropping against mine. His skin is hot and silken under my palm, and I stroke him once, twice, feeling him pulse in my grip.
I release him shoving my jeans and panties down my hips.
It's awkward—wriggling out of denim while sitting on a kitchen counter—but he helps, tugging the fabric down my legs until I'm bare from the waist down.
The cool air hits my soaked pussy, and I shiver, but then he's stepping between my thighs again and his cock is pressing against my entrance and I don't feel cold anymore.
He pushes inside me with one long, slow thrust.
I cry out—my head falling back, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
He's thick, thicker than I remembered, and the stretch is almost too much, the sensation of being filled so completely that there's no room for anything else—no thought, no fear, no doubt. Just him. Just us. Just this.
“Fuck, Nova—You feel so good. So fucking good."
"Move." I wrap my legs around his hips, locking my ankles at the small of his back. "Romeo, please—move—"
He pulls back until only the head of his cock remains inside me, then thrusts forward hard enough to rock me against the counter.
The edge bites into my ass, and I don't care.
The wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the kitchen—obscene and undeniable—and I moan with each thrust, unable to hold back, unable to pretend I'm anything other than desperate for him.
"So good," he growls, his hips snapping forward again and again. "ah, fuck—you feel so fucking good, your pussy is so tight, so wet—"
His words are filthy and disjointed, his usual eloquence stripped away by the same desperation that's driving his hips.
I cling to him, my fingers twisted in his shirt, my mouth finding his jaw, his neck, whatever skin I can reach.
I bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he groans—low and guttural—and his pace increases.
The coil inside me tightens with every thrust, every brush of his pelvis against my clit. I'm close—too close, already, when did I get this close?—and I try to hold back, try to make it last, but he feels too good and I need this too much and—
"Romeo—" His name tears out of me on a sob. "I'm going to—I can't—"
"Do it." His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, and he circles it with the same relentless rhythm as his thrusts. "Come for me, Nova. Let me feel you."
I break.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and I'm gasping, crying out, my whole body shaking as my pussy clenches around his cock in pulsing waves. "Ah—ah! I—I can't—oh god, Romeo, fuck—"
He follows me over the edge two thrusts later, his hips stuttering, his cock buried deep inside me as he comes with a groan that sounds like my name.
I feel him pulse, feel the heat of his release flooding me, and I hold him tighter, my legs still locked around his hips, my face pressed against his neck.
We stay like that for a long moment—his forehead resting against my shoulder, both of us breathing hard, the sounds of our gasps gradually quieting in the still kitchen. The refrigerator hums. The stove light buzzes. Somewhere below us, a pipe groans.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest, and I let myself be held. I let myself lean into him. I let myself need this—need him—for just a moment longer before I have to figure out what comes next.
"Ask me again," I say against his throat.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are soft now, the fear and desperation replaced by something warmer, steadier. His thumb traces the line of my jaw.
"Marry me," he says. "Tonight."
"Yes."
The word is simple. It doesn't need to be anything else. He kisses me—soft this time, gentle, his lips moving against mine like a promise he intends to keep. And in my kitchen at midnight, with my bare ass on the counter and his heart beating against mine, I believe him.
The building settles around us with its groaning pipes and its bleach-scrubbed stairwell… its broken elevator and its four flights of steps that a man in Italian leather shoes climbed twice for me. I pull him to my bedroom to stay the night.
When my eyes open again the kitchen stove light is still on and Romeo is lying behind me on a bed that's too small for him, his arm wrapped around my waist, his face pressed into the back of my neck. He's asleep. His breathing has finally gone even.
In the morning I will wake Tomás and Marisol. I will make eggs and pack lunches and write a napkin note and tell them nothing.
I will marry Romeo Rivas before lunch.
And the woman who held three lives together with bare hands and stripper's tips will walk into a world where the dangers arrive with blood on them.
I close my eyes. His arm tightens around me in his sleep.
I let it.