Chapter Twelve
Mario
The last thing I expected was this.
Not just the sex, though that was... more than I anticipated. The sheer abandon in her, the way she met me, challenge for challenge, was a revelation.
And the way she submitted in exactly the right way was a dangerous, heady drug I am not sure I can resist.
But this.
The quiet stillness of the room in the aftermath. The weight of her sleeping on my chest. The scent of our combined arousal, of her sweat and mine, a primal musk that clings to the air.
It’s… intimate.
Somehow more intimate than the sex.
The sex was a battle. A glorious, sweat-slicked, breathless war of wills. A negotiation of power that we both won.
This is the truce.
The quiet aftermath where the spoils are counted.
And I find I am a wealthy man.
She is asleep.
Truly, deeply asleep.
Her head is nestled in the crook of my shoulder, her soft, even breaths warm against my skin. Her body is limp, heavy with the kind of sated exhaustion only total fatigue and a truly great fuck can bring.
A smug satisfaction settles over me.
I did that.
I made this strong, intelligent, controlled woman fall apart.
I made her lose sleep, from dreams alone.
I made her beg.
I made her scream with abandon.
I made her mine.
The thought is a snarl in my chest. Mine.
It is the most potent form of satisfaction I have ever known.
And the most dangerous.
Because the urge to do it again is a physical ache.
I shift slightly, just enough to see her face in the dim light filtering through the window.
She is different when she sleeps.
The sharp edges are gone. The guarded, wary expression she wears like armor has softened, leaving behind a face that is surprisingly vulnerable.
Beautiful.
I have always known she was beautiful. It is an objective fact, like the sky being blue, the grass being green. She is all high cheekbones, full lips, and intelligent, arresting eyes that see far too much.
But now, she is more than that.
She is exquisite.
My gaze drifts down to her body, currently sprawled half on top of me, a tangle of long limbs and soft curves.
I let my hand drift over her shoulder, down the smooth, elegant line of her back.
Her skin is like silk. Warm. Alive. My touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and she shivers in her sleep, snuggling into my body more.
A soft sigh escapes her lips, her body unconsciously seeking more of my touch, more of my warmth.
My cock, which should be sated, spent, and thoroughly tamed, begins to stir against her thigh.
Insatiable.
That’s what she is.
She has turned me into a teenager again. A single touch, a single sigh, and I am ready for another round.
I could wake her.
I could slide into her again, slow and deep, and feel her wake up around me.
The thought is tempting.
So very tempting.
But I don’t.
She needs sleep, and though many would call me a careless man, I am not completely without a conscience. I have worn her out. I can feel the faint tremors still running through her body from the lack of sleep and proper rest.
And selfishly, I want to savor this moment.
She is so rarely like this. Unguarded.
In the office, she is my equal. A formidable opponent. A brilliant strategist who gives as good as she gets. Our battles are fought with words and data, with clever maneuvering and strategic plays. I respect her immensely. That is part of the problem. It is impossible not to.
But here…
Here, she is not my colleague or my rival.
She is just Victoria.
A very naked and very satisfied woman who is currently sleeping in my arms.
A woman who looked me in the eye and told me she was mine.
My chest tightens at the memory.
The possessive triumph I felt in that moment is still there, a warm, intoxicating hum beneath my skin. But there is something else there, too. Something I am not prepared to name. Something that feels dangerously close to responsibility.
A dangerous thought.
This was supposed to be a single night. A release of tension. A way to finally get her out of my system.
But lying here with her, feeling the weight of her body against mine, the steady rhythm of her breath, I know it is not that simple.
It has never been that simple.
From the moment I met her, there has been a… connection. A spark. An awareness that has hummed between us, an undercurrent to every sharp-tongued exchange and competitive glare.
I have spent the last two weeks fighting it. Telling myself it was a bad idea. That she was a complication I didn’t need in my life. That mixing business and pleasure was a fool’s errand.
And yet, here I am.
In her bed.
With the scent of her all over me.
Her question from before, sleep-mumbled and slurred, comes back to me.
Fica… something…
A slow, wicked smile curves my lips.
Voglio sentire la tua fica stringersi intorno a me.
I want to feel your cunt tighten around me.
The cunt I just fucked into oblivion.
The one that is currently overflowing with my cum.
My smile widens. I am a Neanderthal. A base, possessive creature who is entirely too pleased with himself.
But I can’t seem to find it in myself to care.
I look down at her again. Her face is turned towards me, her lips parted slightly. A strand of dark hair is stuck to her cheek, and I have the strangest urge to brush it away.
So I do.
My fingers are gentle as they tuck the hair behind her ear. My knuckles brush against the soft skin of her cheek, but she doesn't move a muscle.
I'm not sure anything could wake her right now; her sleep is so deep.
Except maybe another orgasm.
The thought is there, unbidden and intrusive. A flash of her, arching beneath me, her body convulsing around my fingers, her cries of pleasure echoing in my ears.
I shift again, this time to ease the growing ache between my legs. This is getting ridiculous. I feel like a teenager with a permanent hard-on.
I should go.
It is the rational, logical thing to do. The responsible thing.
Stay, and this becomes something more than it should be. Stay, and I send a message I’m not sure I’m ready to send.
Stay, and I might not want to leave.
The thought is a sharp, unwelcome jab.
I am a man who likes to be in control. Of my life, my company, my desires. But with her… with her, my control is a frayed thread, threatening to snap at any moment.
I start to disentangle myself from her, moving slowly, carefully, trying not to wake her.
As I suspected, she doesn't stir. I slip out of bed, the cool air a shock to my overheated skin. I look for my clothes, but they are a scattered mess on the floor, a trail of discarded garments that tells the story of our desperate, frantic journey to this bed.
I don't bother with them. I just grab my phone from the pocket of my trousers and head for the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
I need a moment.
A moment to clear my head.
To process what just happened.
I lean against the cool marble of the vanity and look at myself in the mirror.
The man who stares back is a stranger.
His hair is a mess. His lips are swollen. His eyes are dark, not with their usual cool calculation, but with something else. Something raw and untamed.
And I see it in the reflection of my own eyes. On my own skin. Faint reddish marks on my arms, and, when I turn to the side a bit, on my back as well.
She wasn't a passive participant in this. She didn't just lie there and take it. She fought me. She clawed me. She demanded and took as much as she gave.
The memory of her nails digging into my skin, the sound of her ragged breaths, the feel of her body tightening around mine, sends a fresh wave of lust through me.
I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some sense into my system.
It doesn't work.
All it does is make me more aware of the faint, lingering scent of her on my skin. The smell of our sex that clings to me like a second skin.
I look at my phone. It's almost 3:00 in the morning.
I should tell Armando to pull the car around. I should get dressed and walk out the door. I should go back to my own home, my own bed, and pretend this never happened.
I should...
I pick up my phone and tap out a message to Armando.
Staying for the night. Security good?
His reply is almost instant. Si, signore. Always.
I am not surprised. Armando isn't just my driver. He's my head of security, a former member of the Carabinieri with a network of contacts and an almost unnerving ability to be exactly where he needs to be, exactly when he needs to be there.
If I am in this building, he knows it top to bottom. He knows the floor, the apartment, and probably the fact that I am currently in the bathroom wearing nothing but a layer of sweat and a considerable amount of Victoria's arousal.
I put the phone down, my decision made.
I am staying.
The relief that washes over me is so intense it is almost disconcerting. I have made billion-euro deals that required less emotional investment than the simple decision to stay the night.
I open the drawers of her cabinet until I find a stack of hand towels and washcloths. I dampen one with warm water and wring it out.
I don't know why I'm doing this. It’s an impulse. A need.
I walk back into the bedroom.
She is exactly as I left her, sprawled on her stomach, her face turned towards the empty space I just vacated. Her dark hair is fanned across the white pillowcase, a striking, beautiful contrast. The sheet is pooled around her waist, leaving her back exposed.
I pause for a moment, just looking at her.
The smooth, elegant line of her spine. The gentle curve of her hips. That full ass I filled my hands with as I thrusted into her over and over.
My cock twitches again. I ignore it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with my weight. She stirs, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but she doesn't wake.
I gently, carefully, begin to wipe her clean.
She is still slick with the messy evidence of our fucking. As I clean her, my touch is light, almost reverent.
No one would call me a gentle man.
I am demanding, aggressive, and possessive. I take what I want, when I want it.
But here, in the darkness of her bedroom, I feel a strange, unfamiliar tenderness.
A need to care for her.
It’s an unsettling feeling.
It is the kind of feeling that leads to attachments. The kind of feeling that can be used against you.
The kind of feeling that can get you killed.
The kind of feeling that can get her killed...
I push the thought aside.
No, not here. Not now.
Determined, I finish my task. She is clean now, her skin smooth and warm beneath my touch.
I toss the washcloth on the floor, turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. I slide back under the covers, pulling her into my arms.
As if on instinct, she snuggles closer, her head finding its place in the crook of my shoulder, her arm draping over my waist.
Her breath is a soft, warm puff against my skin.
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel a sense of... peace.
A quiet stillness that settles in my chest, a calm that I haven't felt for... about a decade. Not since before.
A dark, unwelcome memory tries to surface. A flash of red and blue lights, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the sound of a woman's scream...
No.
I shut it down, locking it away in the deep, dark corner of my mind where I keep all the things I refuse to feel.
I focus on the present.
On the woman in my arms.
On the steady rhythm of her breathing.
I close my eyes, forcing my body to relax, and for the first time in years, I fall asleep with someone in my arms.