CHAPTER TWENTY
Marco
I DRIVE BACK to the house in silence. I have to keep wiping the blood from my eye that still streams down my face.
A fucking grenade. I didn’t expect that.
The house is silent when I return; the halls are quiet and still. I should shower, clean the blood off, change out of these ruined clothes. Instead, I find myself outside her door, drawn like a compass needle finding north.
I don't knock. I turn the handle slowly, half-expecting it to be locked as I instructed. It isn't.
The room is dim, lit only by the silver glow of moonlight streaming through the windows. For a moment, I think she's asleep, but then I see her curled in a chair by the window, a book open on her lap. She's wearing a silk robe that's slipped just enough to expose the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her collarbone.
She starts at my entrance, sitting up straight, instantly alert. "Marco?" Her eyes widen as she takes in my appearance. "What happened?"
"I’m okay," I say, closing the door behind me.
She rises from the chair, the book falling forgotten to the floor. Without hesitation, she crosses to me, reaching up to examine the cut above my eyebrow. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
Her concern is achingly genuine, and it hits me like a physical blow. I'm not used to gentleness, to someone caring about my welfare. My world is built on power, on fear, on respect born from violence. Not this—not the soft touch of a woman looking at me with worry in her eyes.
"Nothing serious," I manage to say.
We're standing so close I can smell the jasmine scent of her skin, can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. Her robe has slipped further, revealing more than she likely realizes. I should step back, maintain some control, but I can't make myself move.
"I was worried," she admits softly.
The confession undoes me. Years of wanting her, of denying myself, of telling myself she was better off without me in her life—all of it crumbles in the face of those three simple words.
"Were you?" I ask, my voice rough with need.
She nods, and I see the same hunger in her eyes that I know must be visible in mine.
I can't help myself. I reach out, brushing my fingers against her cheek, half-expecting her to pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine.
"You should have been asleep," I say, a last attempt at restraint.
"I couldn't," she whispers.
I glance at her lips, remembering our first kiss—angry, desperate, a release of frustration. I want more. I want everything she's willing to give me.
"Sasha," I say her name like a prayer, a warning, a plea.
She answers by closing the distance between us, pressing her lips to mine.
The kiss shatters what little control I have left. This isn't like before—this is deeper, slower, a culmination of years of wanting. I slide my hands into her hair, cradling her head as I deepen the kiss, and she melts against me, her body fitting against mine like she was made for me.
She tastes like everything I've ever denied myself, sweet and intoxicating. Her hands move to my shirt, working the buttons open with trembling fingers, and I break the kiss only to trail my lips down her neck, across her collarbone, unable to get enough of her.
"We shouldn't," I murmur against her skin, even as my hands work the knot of her robe loose.
"I know," she agrees, helping me shrug off my shirt.
"You're leaving in a day," I remind us both, my voice strained as her robe falls open, revealing her body in the moonlight.
She meets my gaze steadily, unflinching. "Then we have tonight."
In that moment, looking into her eyes, I know I'm lost. I've wanted this woman for years, kept my distance, told myself she deserved better. But tonight, she's choosing me, and I don't have the strength to deny us both any longer.
I lift her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed, marveling at how right she feels in my arms. I lay her down gently, taking a moment to simply look at her—the woman who's haunted my thoughts for so long, now here, real, wanting me as much as I want her.
"You're so beautiful," I tell her, my voice reverent as I join her on the bed. "I've wanted you for so long."
Her eyes widen slightly. "How long?"
"Since the first time I saw you," I admit, trailing my fingers along the curve of her waist. "You were too good for someone like me. You still are."
She reaches up, tracing the tattoo that covers my chest, her touch feather-light but searing. "Let me decide what's good for me."
I cover her hand with mine, pressing it flat against my heart. "I've kept my distance because everything I touch eventually breaks, Sasha. I didn't want to break you too."
"I'm stronger than you think," she whispers, pulling me down to her.
I take my time, determined to worship her inch by inch, to carve the feel of her into my memory. Years of wanting, of imagining, and yet nothing could have prepared me for the reality of her—her scent, rich and intoxicating, the taste of her skin beneath my lips, the heat of her searing into me like a brand.
"Marco," she gasps, my name a breathless plea as I map her with my hands and mouth, learning her, unraveling her. I watch the way she moves beneath me, every shift and arch of her body speaking of surrender. She’s undone, trembling, and I am the one who has reduced her to this—a thought so darkly satisfying it tightens the heat coiling low in my stomach.
I sit back on my knees, my eyes devouring the sight of her flushed, needy body sprawled before me. My fingers work at the buttons of my shirt, each one slipping free with agonizing slowness, my gaze never leaving hers. Sasha’s chest rises and falls in anticipation, her pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted as she watches me undress. I shrug the fabric from my shoulders, letting it drop carelessly to the floor before reaching for my belt. The soft clink of metal fills the space between us as I slide it free, the rasp of my zipper the only warning before I push my pants down, along with my briefs, freeing my aching cock.
Her breath hitches. Her eyes flicker downward, darkening with something raw, something unfiltered. I wrap my hand around myself, stroking slowly, deliberately, letting her see just how much I want her, how much I’ve craved this moment. A soft, desperate whimper escapes her lips, and it’s all the encouragement I need.
I move over her again, trailing my lips down her stomach, reveling in the way her muscles tense beneath my mouth. My fingers slide between her thighs, parting her slick heat, teasing, tormenting. She bucks against my hand, her body begging without words, and I give in to the temptation of tasting her, dragging my tongue through the evidence of her arousal. She gasps, her hands fisting the sheets, her body trembling as I take my time, learning what makes her cry out, what makes her body tighten like a bowstring.
When I finally rise above her, positioning myself at her entrance, I hesitate. My cock throbs against her heat, the sensation enough to send a shudder through me. Her hands frame my face, fingers tracing the sharp lines of my jaw, grounding me in this moment. "Please," she whispers, her voice wrecked with need.
With a slow, measured thrust, I push into her, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her. A ragged groan tears from my throat as she clenches around me, her body tight, hot, perfect. I still, my forehead pressing against hers, jaw clenched as I fight for control, fight against the primal urge to take her hard and fast. Her nails dig into my shoulders, urging me forward, deeper, and I give in, burying myself fully inside her.
A sharp gasp escapes her, her back arching, legs tightening around me, pulling me impossibly closer. I move, slow at first, savoring every inch, every reaction. She moves with me, her body molding to mine in a rhythm that feels inevitable, like coming home to something I didn’t know I was missing. The sounds she makes, the way she clings to me, undoes me piece by piece.
I watch her—head thrown back, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure. She’s breathtaking. Ruined for me. And I need more.
"Look at me," I command, my voice dark, rough. I can feel the warm blood still dripping from my brow, and I brush it away with the back of my head.
Her eyes flutter open, locking onto mine. I pump harder and faster, and I’m aching to watch her come.
And then she shatters. Her body tightens around me, her cry breaking through the air like a prayer, allowing me to unleash all the want I’ve ever had. Her body jerks with every stroke; she continues to cry out. I feel my release pour inside her with each thrust into her pussy I empty myself.
Afterward, we collapse in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, her body pressed against mine, her head rising and falling with each heavy breath I take. I thread my fingers through her hair, tracing lazy circles against her bare shoulder, feeling something unfamiliar settle deep in my chest.
Peace.
A feeling I haven’t known in years—maybe ever.
Once our breathing settles, Sasha turns so she’s looking up at me.
"This changes nothing," she says, but there's no conviction in her voice.
For me, it changes everything.