17. Adriana #2
He steps inside. Closes the door. Stands there awkwardly.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from the couch.
He sits. I stay where I am, wine glass in hand like a shield.
“I owe you more than an apology,” he says. “I owe you an explanation.”
“I’m listening.”
“When I was growing up, my father controlled everything. Every aspect of my life. What I wore, who I talked to, what future I was allowed to want. And I swore I’d never be like him.
But somewhere along the way, I started thinking that control was fine as long as it was for someone’s benefit.
That it wasn’t the same thing if I was trying to protect someone. ”
“It is the same thing.”
“I know. You’re right.” He meets my eyes. “What I did with Rafael, I told myself it was about protecting you. But it was also about me. About my need to do something. To feel like I wasn’t helpless.”
“I’m not something you need to fix, Enzo.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need a protector. I need a partner. Someone who trusts me to handle my own life.”
“I know.” He leans forward. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. And if you tell me you need space, I’ll give you space. If you tell me this is over…” He stops. Swallows. “I’ll accept that.”
The anger that’s been simmering in my chest starts to fade. Not because his apology fixed everything, but because he’s actually hearing me. He’s not defending himself or making excuses.
He’s just… listening.
“I don’t want it to be over,” I say quietly.
Relief flickers across his face. “No?”
“No. But I need you to understand something.” I set down my wine glass. “I spent twenty-four years being a pawn. My father used me. Rafael used me. I’ve never been allowed to make my own choices.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because what you did, going behind my back, that’s exactly what they did. It doesn’t matter that your intentions were good. What matters is that you took away my agency.”
“I understand.”
“If we’re going to work, you have to stop. You have to let me fight my own battles, even when it’s hard. Even when you’re scared.”
“I’ll try.”
“Trying isn’t enough.”
“Then I will. I’ll do it.” He leans forward. “I can’t promise I won’t screw up. But I can promise I’ll always listen when you tell me I’ve crossed a line.”
It’s a good answer.
But there’s still a knot in my chest that the apology doesn’t touch. It’s been building for weeks, and it has nothing to do with Enzo.
“I’m so tired,” I say. “I’m so tired of fighting. Of proving myself. Of trying to figure out who I am when everyone I’ve ever known has told me I’m not enough.”
“Ana…”
“My whole life, I’ve been the backup. The spare. The daughter who wasn’t pretty enough or special enough to matter. And I tried so hard to earn their love. I was obedient and quiet and I never caused problems and I thought if I just kept my head down, eventually they’d see me.”
The tears come without warning. I haven’t cried like this in weeks.
“They never saw me,” I say through the tears. “My father looked right through me. My mother was too scared to look at all. And Rafael, I thought he actually liked me. But I was just convenient. Just a warm body in a wedding dress.”
Enzo moves from the chair to the couch. Sits beside me. Doesn’t touch me, just exists in my space.
“I don’t know who I am,” I whisper. “I’ve spent so long being what other people needed me to be. I don’t know what I actually want. What kind of person I’d be if I’d ever been allowed to choose.”
“You’re choosing now.”
“Am I? Or am I just trading one situation for another?”
“I won’t be another cage.” His voice is fierce. “I’d rather lose you than trap you.”
“You mean that?”
“I mean it.” He finally reaches out, touches my face, wipes a tear from my cheek. “You’re not a backup, Ana. You’re not a spare. You’re not someone’s convenient second choice.”
“Then what am I?”
He’s quiet for a moment. I can see him thinking, weighing something.
“You’re the person I can’t stop thinking about,” he says finally. “The person I want to be better for. Beyond that…” He shakes his head. “I don’t have the words. Not yet. But I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s not the confession I half-expected. It’s smaller than that, and more honest, an admission that he doesn’t have all the answers either.
I look at him. Really look. At the man who showed up to apologize. Who admitted he was wrong. Who promised to do better.
Maybe that’s enough for now. Not certainty. Not forever. Just this. Just trying.
I reach for him. Just his hand, at first. He lets me take it, lets me turn it over in mine, and neither of us says anything for a moment.
“I don’t want to do this here,” I say finally. “Not on Amelia’s couch, with her wine and her terrible TV and her coming back any minute.” I almost laugh. “I want to go home.”
Something moves through his face when I say it. Home. I hear it a second after he does.
“Then let’s go home,” he says.
***
We barely make it through his front door.
It’s not soft, when it finally happens. It’s all the fear and anger and wanting of the last few hours pouring out at once. His hands are in my hair. Mine are fisting his shirt. He walks me back toward the couch and I go, pulling him down with me.
“Ana.” My name is a groan against my lips. “If you want to stop…”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“We should talk more…”
“Later.”
I pull his shirt over his head. He reaches behind me and drags the zipper of my dress down, slow, until the back of it falls open against my skin. Then I push him back into the cushions, because I want to be the one who decides what happens next.
I straddle his lap on the couch and push his shoulders back against the cushions.
His shirt is already gone. My dress hangs open at the back.
I lean in and kiss him hard, my mouth opening over his as my tongue slides deep.
He tastes like the wine we had earlier. I keep the kiss going, slow and wet, sucking on his lower lip before diving back in.
My hands move down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin while I press my body closer.
I break away just enough to speak against his mouth. “Hands off. You don’t touch unless I say.”
He nods, jaw tight, and drops his hands to the cushions.
I go back to kissing him right away, longer this time, my tongue exploring while my fingers work his belt open.
The leather slides free and I pop the button on his pants.
I reach in and wrap my hand around his cock, stroking him slow from base to tip.
He thickens in my grip, getting harder with every pull.
I keep kissing him through it, nipping at his tongue and then soothing it with soft licks.
My hips start to move on their own. I rock forward so my pussy slides along his length, still covered by my panties.
The thin fabric drags over him and I feel myself getting wetter.
I grind down a little harder, letting the head of his cock press against my clit through the lace.
He exhales sharp against my lips but stays still like I told him.
I pull back from the kiss to tug my dress up and off, then reach behind me to unhook my bra.
Both hit the floor. Naked from the waist up, I lean down again and kiss him slower, deeper.
My bare breasts brush his chest with every shift of my hips.
I keep stroking his cock, thumb circling the head to spread the bead of precum there.
He groans into my mouth and I swallow the sound, kissing him harder.
I sit up a bit and hook my thumbs into my panties, sliding them down my thighs without getting off his lap.
Once they’re gone I settle back down, bare pussy now gliding along his bare cock.
The wet slide feels good, hot and slick.
I roll my hips in steady circles, dragging my clit over him again and again.
My hands stay on his chest, holding him down.
He watches me with dark eyes, muscles tight, but his hands don’t move.
I lean in for more kissing, open-mouthed and messy.
My tongue tangles with his while I keep grinding.
Pleasure builds low in my belly from the friction.
I reach between us and wrap my fingers around him again, guiding the head to rub right against my entrance without pushing in yet.
I tease myself with it, letting just the tip part my folds before pulling back.
He twitches in my hand but doesn’t thrust.
“Ana,” he says, voice low. “Please.”
I shake my head and kiss him again to shut him up, sucking on his tongue while I keep the slow grind going.
My thighs are already warm from the movement.
I keep this up for a while, kissing and stroking and rubbing until I’m dripping and ready.
Only then do I reach for the condom on the side table, roll it down his length, and position myself on top of him.
I sink down onto him slow, feeling every inch stretch me open until my ass meets his thighs.
He’s thick and hot inside me, filling me up completely.
I stay still for a second, adjusting to the pressure, then start to move.
My hips roll in a steady circle, grinding my clit against him with each pass.
I lean forward and kiss him again, open and deep. My tongue slides over his while I keep riding him at that same unhurried pace. His cock drags along my inner walls with every lift and drop. I brace my hands on his chest and push him back harder into the cushions.
“Stay still,” I murmur against his mouth. “No touching.”
He groans but keeps his hands where they are.
I pick up the rhythm a little, bouncing now so his cock slides almost all the way out before I take him back in.
Wet sounds fill the small room every time I drop down.
I kiss along his jaw and down his neck, sucking lightly at the skin there while my breasts brush his chest.
Pleasure builds fast from the friction. I reach between us and rub my clit in tight circles with two fingers, still moving on him. My thighs burn from the effort but I don’t stop. I kiss him harder, biting his lower lip before soothing it with my tongue.
“Fuck, Ana,” he says, voice rough. “You feel so good.”
I shake my head and kiss him to quiet him again, sucking on his tongue while I grind down deep. I keep the pace slow and deliberate, drawing it out. Every time I feel myself getting close I ease off, circling my hips instead of bouncing. He twitches inside me but stays obedient.
I do this for a while, teasing both of us, until the need gets too sharp. Then I speed up, riding him harder. My fingers work faster on my clit. The orgasm hits sudden and strong, pulsing around his cock. I moan into his mouth and keep moving through it, drawing it out until my legs shake.
Only after I catch my breath do I reach down and pull off the condom. I stroke him with my hand, fast and tight, until he comes hot across his own stomach. I kiss him through it, softer now, then rest my forehead against his.
“Shower?” I ask, still a little breathless.
He huffs a laugh, the kind that’s still half breath. “Yeah. Shower.”
Neither of us moves for a minute. Then he sits up with me still wrapped around him, one arm hooked under me like he’s not planning to let go even to stand, and carries us both toward the bathroom while I laugh into his neck and tell him he’s going to drop me.
He doesn’t drop me.
***
Later, clean and warm and wearing one of his shirts because I couldn’t be bothered to find my own, we end up back on the couch anyway, tangled together like we never left it.
My head is on his chest. His hand traces patterns on my back. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
“Amelia’s going to come back to an empty apartment and know exactly what happened,” I finally murmur.
“She told us to figure our shit out.”
“I don’t think this is what she meant.”
“Close enough.”
Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches. Comfortable, but not completely. There’s still a space between us, the unspoken thing neither of us has touched. I can feel it in the careful way he’s holding me. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Mm.”
“We’re okay?”
I think about it. Really think.
“We’re getting there,” I say. “But Enzo…”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, just talk to me. Even if you think I’ll say no. Even if it’s hard.” I lift my head, meet his eyes. “I’d rather fight with you about something than find out about it later from Amelia.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I lay my head back down and listen to his heartbeat, slow and even under my ear.
We’re not fixed. One apology, one night, it doesn’t erase the patterns we’re both fighting against. Him and his need to control. Me and my fear of being controlled.
But we’re trying. That has to count for something.
“Enzo,” I say, half-asleep.
“Yeah?”
“There’s more you’re not telling me. About why you… about us. About what this is.”
He’s quiet a while. I can feel his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “There is.”
“Will you tell me?”
Another pause. “When I figure out how.”
It’s not an answer. But it’s honest.
And right now, honest is enough.