Chapter 44 #2
Before I can collapse onto the bed, his strong arms are around me, guiding me to my side, so we don't crush the baby. My back to his chest. I'm boneless, spent, my body still humming with the aftershocks of my orgasm.
Luca kisses my shoulder, then my neck, his lips soft and gentle now. He's still inside me, a warm, heavy weight that feels more like an anchor than anything else. He's still for a moment, just breathing, just holding me.
"Okay?" he asks again, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
"Mmm," is all I can manage, a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment.
I can feel his smile against my skin. "Good."
He starts to move again, his hips rocking in a slow, easy rhythm. This isn't the frantic, desperate pace from before. This is something else. Something deeper, more intimate.
His hand rests on my belly, his thumb stroking lazy circles over my skin. He's not trying to make me come again, not yet. This is just for us. Just for the feeling of being connected, of being as close as two people can possibly be.
I close my eyes and just let myself feel. The weight of his body against mine. The slow, steady rhythm of his hips. The warmth of his hand on my stomach. The sound of his breathing in my ear.
He leans in and kisses my cheek, his lips soft and gentle. "Ti amo," he whispers.
I turn my head, our lips meeting in a slow, tender kiss. "Ti amo anch'io," I whisper back.
We lie there for a long time, just rocking, just breathing, just being. The city outside continues to glitter, a distant, irrelevant backdrop to our own private world.
He starts to move a little faster, his thrusts a little harder. His hand slides from my stomach to my breast, his thumb circling my nipple. I can feel the pressure building inside me again, a slow, steady burn.
"Luca," I breathe, my voice a little desperate.
"I know," he murmurs, his lips against my ear. "Let go, Elena. I've got you."
His words are my undoing. The second orgasm is even more intense than the first, a wave of pleasure so powerful it almost hurts. I cry out his name, my body arching against his as he continues to move, drawing out my release until I'm a trembling, quivering mess.
He follows me over the edge again, his own release a low, guttural groan against my ear.
I’m a puddle of liquid limbs and fragmented thoughts, curled against his chest. The air in the room is thick with the scent of us—sweat and sex and the faint smell of the hotel soap.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice a low, raspy vibration against my ear.
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. “I think you broke me.”
He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that I feel more than hear. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He smooths the damp hair away from my forehead, his touch gentle, reverent. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m a mess,” I mumble into his chest.
“My mess,” he says, his lips brushing the crown of my head. He tightens his arm around me, pulling me closer. “My beautiful, incredible, messy mess.”
I can’t help the little smile that tugs at my lips. I snuggle deeper into his embrace, my leg hooking over his, my hand resting on his chest, over his heart. The steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump is a comforting sound.
We lie there in comfortable silence for a while, our bodies cooling, our breathing slowing. The city outside is still awake, constant, pulsing. But up here, in this room, it's just the two of us.
Well, three of us, technically. I place my hand on my belly, where I can feel the faint, fluttery movements of our baby. She’s quiet for now, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of our lovemaking.
Luca covers my hand with his, his fingers lacing through mine. “She’s really in there,” he says, his voice filled with a sense of wonder that never fails to make my heart ache.
“She is,” I say softly. “And she’s going to be a terror. Just like her father.”
He laughs again. “She’s going to be brilliant. And beautiful. And she’s going to have us wrapped around her little finger from the moment she’s born. I would know."
I look up and see the soft look on his face, his eyes closed.
I know exactly what he's thinking about.
"It's going to be all right," I reassure him.
He opens his eyes, and there's uncertainty in them.
"How do you know?" he asks.
I snuggle closer to him, trace his jaw with my finger.
"She's coming all the way here to see you," I say. "She wouldn't be doing that if she didn't want to mend the relationship."
"What if she changes her mind?" he asks. "What if Lucia takes one look at me and walks out?"
I lift my head so I can see his face. “You’re her father,” I tell him.
His mouth twists. “That hasn’t been a selling point for her in a long time.”
“Maybe not out loud,” I say. “But it’s still true in her bones.”
He stares past me at the ceiling. I trace the notch of his collarbone with my fingertip until his eyes come back to me. “You’re doing the brave part,” I remind him. “Showing up and not trying to control the outcome. That’s… not your usual approach.”
He huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You saying I’m a tyrant, Panini?”
“I’m saying you prefer results,” I say, smiling. “And this isn’t a results situation. This is a lay-your-heart-down-and-hope one.”
He goes quiet. I watch the ways he hides when he’s scared—how his lashes lower, how he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth like he’s holding something in. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer. “You’re certain she’ll come.”
“I’m certain she said yes,” I answer honestly. “And I’m certain she meant it when she said she wants to try. The rest is about tomorrow’s nerves, not her heart.”
His jaw works. “Nick didn’t want her to.”
“I know.” I exhale. “He told me she’d regret it. That it would… undo things she’s built for herself.” I slide my palm up his chest to his throat, my thumb resting where I can feel his pulse.
“Which is why I told them there are rules. Public place. No surprises. If either of them wants to leave at any time, we let them. And you just talk to your daughter. No leverage. No guilt.”
“I don’t want to use leverage,” he says, hurt flickering at the edge.
“I know,” I say quickly. “I told them that, too. But I also told them the truth: that you don’t want anything from her except to talk.”
He turns his face into my hand and kisses my palm like he did earlier, slower this time.
“What did she say?”
“That she hates you,” I say, and he flinches, and I press on, “and that she misses you. She said both things in the same breath, which means she’s honest. She said she doesn’t want to be dragged back into the past. I told her the past is already following her around, and a single drink in a casino bar won’t make it worse. ”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re very good at this.”
“It’s my job,” I say lightly, then soften. “And I love you. That helps.”
He breathes in, holds it, lets it go.
“What do I say first?” he asks, and there’s the real thing—the vulnerability he hates.
“The truth,” I say. “Hello. I’m nervous. I’m glad you came. I love you. I’m sorry.”
“That simple,” he says, as if simple is the scariest word of all.
“Simple isn’t easy,” I admit. “But it’s best. No explanations she doesn’t ask for, no justifications. If she wants details, she’ll ask.” I nudge his shoulder with my nose. “And you listen more than you talk.”
He grunts. “So I say four words and then shut up.”
“Maybe a few more than that. Add, ‘What do you need?’” I tilt my head. “Then whatever she says, you accept it. If she needs to leave, you let her. If she needs to yell, you take it. If she needs a hug—”
“Don’t assume,” he cuts in, a wry edge to it.
“Correct,” I say, amused. “Ask first. Always ask.”
His thumb sweeps over my knuckles, slow, thinking. “And Dixon?”
“Nick will be there, yes,” I say. “He’s protective. I don’t blame him.”
“Will she—” The words catch in his throat. I know what he’s going to say, but I wait for him to say it. He needs to learn to say the hard things. “Will she bring her girls?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “No. Not this time, anyway.”
He nods, but his expression is bitter. “Right,” he says. “Of course.”
“This is just first things first,” I add quickly. “You and her. No audience. No pressure.”
He stares at the ceiling again, jaw tight. “I don’t deserve to see them anyway.”
I shift up on my elbow so he has to look at me. “Don’t say that. It’s not the same anymore. Tomorrow is a new beginning. Not a verdict.”
He huffs out a breath that could be a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “You’re such a lawyer.”
“I am, yes,” I say, smiling.
His hand sweeps my belly, then finds mine and threads our fingers. We lay there for a long time, enjoying the peace and quiet, the time together without the complications. My eyes start to drift shut.
“Order the fries,” I murmur, drowsy now, snuggling closer into him.
“Of course, Bella,” he says, pressing a kiss to my head.
“And the tart,” I say.
“And the milkshake,” he adds. “Just rest now, and I’ll take care of it all.”
I open my mouth to answer, but sleep pulls me under.