The Christmas Market #2
He’s reclaiming my body. Filling something in himself that two years left hollow.
Then his mouth goes to work—biting, stroking, pinching in turn, moving between tenderness and edge with practiced ease, his eyes never leaving my face, watching for every reaction, every shiver, every held breath.
And I drown in his gaze. I want him to see the love I have for him, the way I see his—plainly, in the attention we give each other, in every shared gesture.
He moves lower and lower, slowly removing what’s left of my clothes.
Soon I’m completely bare, while he’s still fully dressed.
I push myself up and pull him to his feet. I start unbuttoning his shirt.
My hands tremble with impatience, but he doesn’t help. His gaze drinks in every expression on my face, every hesitation of my fingers.
His shirt falls to the floor.
I stop to take him in.
My hands begin to explore. To rediscover. I’d forgotten the flex and firmness of his muscles, the softness of his skin, the warmth that radiates off him.
I press my palm against him through the fabric of his pants. His body tenses almost imperceptibly, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp.
Slowly, I undo his pants and free him. I’d forgotten how impressive he is. He pulses softly as my fingers wrap around him. The sensation is incredible—just as hard, and just as smooth, as I remembered.
I’m leaning forward when an ice-cold thought cuts through everything.
I lift my head abruptly.
“Do you… do you have a condom?”
He looks at me, confused.
“What?"
Then I watch the exact moment he understands what I’m asking.
We never used condoms with each other.
But that was before.
Before Bianca.
A shadow moves through his eyes.
“I always used condoms with her,” he says softly.
The relief that washes over me is stronger than I’d like to admit.
And with it comes a bittersweet truth: he shared an intimacy with Bianca, even if it was nothing like the one he and I had built together.
He moves toward me slowly and captures my lips with infinite gentleness.
“You’re the only one I’m capable of trusting completely.”
His lips cover my face in soft kisses, each one easing the still-raw wound inside me a little more.
Slowly, I kiss him back.
The warmth between us returns—unhurried, fragile, but real.
As if moved by a will of its own, my hand begins to wander.
I trail back down to him, stroking slowly, my hand moving up and down his length. Then impatience gets the better of me and I lower myself to meet him. He shudders in anticipation. My tongue darts out and brushes the bead of moisture gathered at his tip.
Dante lets out a low, ragged groan.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he rasps.
I take in his face—that pure, unguarded vulnerability.
I keep up my slow torment, dragging my tongue along his full length before my lips close entirely around him, taking him deeper and deeper until he hits the back of my throat.
A groan tears from him.
My mouth slides along his shaft, back and forth, deliberately slow. My hands grip his ass as a familiar heat builds between my thighs.
He’s the one driving me crazy.
He has no idea how desirable he is.
He watches, transfixed, as I take him in and out of my mouth—reclaiming his body the way he reclaims mine.
Bianca’s shadow is still there. Painful. But we’re both determined to erase it.
Dante’s breathing grows shallow. He’s already on the edge—he wants to pull back but I don’t give him the chance. His body shudders.
Then he comes, spilling into my mouth.
I take every last drop of him.
And that act of reclaiming loosens something tight in my chest.
Our healing runs through our physical reconnection too.
When his breathing settles, he kisses me hungrily before his hands push me back and lay me down on the bed.
“Let me taste you,” he says.
He settles between my legs, his breath still unsteady. He takes his time looking at me.
“Perfect. You’re perfect.”
Then his tongue finds its way and I arch off the bed.
One hand slides into his hair, the other presses over my mouth to muffle what escapes despite me.
He alternates between long strokes, suction, and the flicker of his tongue.
Then two fingers push inside me and curl with a precision I had forgotten.
I’m right at the edge.
A hand cups my breast, squeezes gently. His fingers curl.
I shatter.
His name tears from my throat.
My thighs tremble and clamp around his head as my whole body convulses.
My vision blurs.
It takes me a few seconds to come back to earth.
As the aftershocks fade, Dante stretches out beside me.
I feel his heart beating against my chest—fast at first, then slower and slower, falling into sync with mine the way it always has.
Our bodies haven’t forgotten. But our hearts… are still learning.
He rolls us onto our sides without loosening his hold. His leg hooks around me, like he’s refusing to let me go.
That fragility of his cuts right through me. Because I understand—it’s going to take time for him to heal from what our separation did to him.
We don’t speak.
Words would be too much. They belong to tomorrow.
For now, there’s only us.
His skin against mine. His breathing settling.
The quiet of this room, where the rest of the world stopped existing for a few hours.