Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kristen
The wine sits on Nico's nightstand, burgundy dark in the crystal decanter I found in the kitchen. Strawberries glisten in a ceramic bowl beside it, along with sliced mango and grapes. A proper seduction spread, if I do say so myself.
The shower cuts off in the bathroom.
I smooth my hands over the silk robe I borrowed from the closet. Technically, it belongs to no one—Vittoria mentioned the guest rooms keep extras.
The bathroom door opens.
Then Nico appears, towel slung low on his hips, water still trailing down the planes of his chest. His dark hair is slicked back, making his angular features look even sharper. More severe.
God, he's beautiful.
His eyes find the tray immediately. Then they find me.
"You want me to have energy for a specific reason?" The words are casual, but his voice has dropped into that register that makes my thighs press together.
I pick up a strawberry, examining it like it holds the secrets of the universe. Then I pop it into my mouth, biting down slow. Juice bursts across my tongue, sweet. I let out a small moan and meet his stare with wide, innocent eyes.
"I don't understand what you're talking about."
Nico's jaw flexes. His fingers twitch at his sides.
Then the towel drops.
"Fuck yeah, you know what I mean."
Oh.
I sink to my knees.
The movement is instinctive. Like he's a force I can't resist, and maybe I don't want to. The plush carpet cushions my legs as I look up at him, still holding the half-eaten strawberry between my fingers.
Nico closes the distance. His hand tangles in my hair firm enough that I feel the controlled strength in his grip. He tilts my head back, forcing my gaze to meet his.
"What does my little horny girl want?"
Instead of answering, I lean forward and take him in my mouth.
"Cazzo—"
His head falls back. I wrap my hand around the base of his shaft, stroking what my lips can't reach, and feel his fingers tighten in my hair. The sting sends heat pooling between my legs.
This. This is what I wanted. To make him lose control. To watch the most dangerous man I've ever met come undone because of me.
I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper, and his hips jerk involuntarily. A groan rumbles through his chest.
"Look at me."
The command cuts through my haze. I lift my eyes without stopping, without slowing, and find him staring down at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Dio, you're fucking perfect."
I moan around him, the vibration making his grip on my hair spasm. His hips rock forward, testing, and I relax my throat to take more. The stretch burns slightly, but I don't care. I want to burn for him. I want to consume and be consumed.
"That's it, bella. Take what you want."
So I do.
His hand tightens in my hair, pulling me back.
"Stop."
The word comes out strangled. Ragged. I release him with a wet pop and look up, confused. His chest heaves, muscles taut beneath golden skin still damp from his shower.
"Did I do something wrong?"
Nico's laugh is dark. Strained. "No, bella. You did everything too fucking right." He cups my jaw, thumb tracing my swollen bottom lip. "But I'm not finishing like this. Not when I want to be inside you."
Oh.
"Stand up."
I obey. My legs tremble slightly as I rise, the silk robe brushing against my heated skin. Nico's eyes rake over me.
"Take it off."
My fingers find the sash at my waist. I pull the knot loose slowly, letting the fabric part inch by inch. The cool air hits my bare breasts first, then my stomach, then lower. The robe pools at my feet in a whisper of silk.
Nico's jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump.
"Cazzo." He breathes the curse like a prayer. "Come here."
He takes my hand and leads me toward the bed, but not onto it. Instead, he positions me at the edge, facing the mattress.
"Lean forward. Hands on the bed, feet on the floor."
I bend at the waist, palms pressing into the sheets.
Nico's palm slides down my spine, making me arch into his touch like a cat. His hand curves over my hip, gripping tight enough to leave fingerprints.
Then his fingers slip between my legs.
"Dio." His voice drops to gravel. "Already this wet for me."
Two fingers slide inside without warning. I gasp, hands fisting in the sheets as he curls them against that spot that makes my vision blur.
"Tell me what you want."
His thumb circles my clit while his fingers pump steadily. The dual sensation short-circuits my brain. I can't think. Can't breathe. Can only feel.
"Tell me." He punctuates the command with a twist of his wrist that makes my knees buckle. "Use your words, bella."
"You," I manage between ragged breaths. "I want you inside me."
"Not specific enough." Another devastating curl of his fingers. "Try again."
Bastard.
"I want you to fuck me." The words tumble out shameless and desperate. "Hard. Deep. I want to feel you for days."
Nico groans. His fingers withdraw, leaving me empty and aching. I hear the nightstand drawer open, the crinkle of a foil wrapper.
Then the blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance.
"Remember," he says, voice rough as sandpaper. "You asked for this."
He slams one brutal thrust.
I cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets. He's so deep I can feel him everywhere, stretching me, filling me. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he sets a punishing rhythm.
No slow build. No gentle introduction. Just raw, relentless need.
"Così stretta." The Italian falls from his lips like filthy praise. "So fucking tight."
Each thrust drives me forward, the bed frame groaning in protest. I brace my arms to keep from collapsing, but my muscles are liquid fire. Every nerve ending screams with pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
"Harder." The word escapes before I can stop it. "Please, Nico—"
He growls and adjusts his angle, hitting deeper. Stars explode behind my eyes.
"That's it." His palm connects with my ass in a sharp slap that makes me clench around him. "Take what you need."
I'm drowning. Burning. Flying apart at the seams.
His hand snakes around to find my clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The dual assault destroys me. I shatter with a scream I barely recognize as my own, walls clamping down on his cock in rhythmic waves.
Nico follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt as he comes with a guttural groan that vibrates through my entire body.
We stay frozen like that, both panting. His forehead drops to rest between my shoulder blades, breath hot against my sweat-slicked skin.
"Perfetta." He presses a kiss to my spine. "Absolutely fucking perfect."
I collapse forward onto the mattress, boneless and satisfied. Nico withdraws carefully, disposing of the condom before gathering me against his chest. We tumble onto the bed properly, limbs tangled, hearts still racing.
"The strawberries are getting warm," I mumble against his shoulder.
His chest rumbles with laughter. "Then we'll eat them warm."
I smile, pressing closer to the solid heat of him. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip, and for this moment, everything outside these walls ceases to exist. No Russians. No ex-husband. No custody battle.
Just us.
Just this.
Nico
The shower water still drips from my hair as I pull on fresh sweatpants. Kristen wraps herself in my robe, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She looks perfect.
"Tonight," I say, crossing to where she stands by the bed, "I believe we can have a sex marathon."
The laugh that bursts from her is loud.
"What?" I demand.
She presses her hand to her mouth, eyes watering. "Sorry. I just—I was actually hoping for a TV series marathon."
I stare at her. "A what?"
"You know." She waves her hand vaguely. "Pick a show, order food, watch six episodes in a row while slowly losing feeling in our legs because we haven't moved from the couch."
"I'm not a big fan."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Of TV?"
"Of sitting still for hours watching other people do things."
"That's—" She pauses, tilting her head. Something shifts in her expression. Less teasing, more curious. "What are you a big fan of, then?"
The question catches me off guard.
No one asks me things like this.
I can't remember the last time someone wanted to know what I like.
"Cars," I hear myself say. "I like working on them. Taking things apart, putting them back together."
Kristen's eyes widen slightly. "You work on cars? Like, with your hands?"
"With my hands," I confirm, flexing my fingers. "There's a '69 Camaro in the garage. Pietro thinks it's junk. I've been restoring it for three years."
"Three years?"
"It's not about finishing. It's about—" I stop, feeling exposed. This is stupid. Why am I telling her this?
"About what?" she prompts gently.
I exhale. "Understanding how something works. Every bolt, every wire. When you rebuild an engine, you know exactly what makes it run. Nothing hidden. Nothing unexpected."
Unlike people, I don't add. But from the way her expression softens, I think she hears it anyway.
"That makes sense," she says quietly. "You like control."
"I like certainty." The distinction matters.
She nods slowly, processing this. Her fingers play with the belt of my robe, and I track the movement without meaning to.
"What else?" she asks.
"Chess." The admission feels strange on my tongue. "I play online. Anonymous matches against strangers."
"You play chess."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not—I just—" She laughs again, lighter this time. "I guess I pictured you doing... I don't know. Intimidating things in your free time. Sharpening knives. Glaring at walls."
"I do those too."
Her laugh is worth the world.
"What about you?" I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What are you a big fan of?"
The question seems to startle her as much as hers startled me. She blinks, then a shy smile spreads across her face.
"Disney."
I wait for the punchline. It doesn't come.
"Disney," I repeat.
"Don't judge me."
"I'm not judging."
"Your face is judging."
"My face is my face."
She rolls her eyes and drops onto the bed beside me, the mattress dipping under her weight. "I grew up on Disney movies. My mom worked doubles most weekends, so I'd sit in our apartment and watch the same VHS tapes over and over. The Little Mermaid. Beauty and the Beast. Mulan."
"Mulan," I echo. "The warrior."
"She saves China by being smarter than everyone around her." Kristen's voice goes soft. "I loved that. A girl who didn't need a prince to rescue her."
"And now?" I ask. "You still watch them?"
"With Lily, yeah. It's different now. Watching her discover them for the first time." Her eyes get that faraway look she gets whenever she talks about her daughter. "She's obsessed with Tangled right now. We've seen it maybe forty times."
"Forty."
"At least."
I try to imagine sitting through the same movie forty times.
"The song," Kristen continues, oblivious to my wandering thoughts. "The lantern scene? Makes me cry every single time. It's embarrassing."
"Why embarrassing?"
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "It's just a cartoon."
"It makes you feel something. That's not embarrassing."
Her gaze snaps to mine. Whatever she sees there makes her breath catch.
"You're strange," she whispers.
"So I've been told."
"No, I mean—" She reaches out, her fingertips brushing my jaw. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but my pulse kicks hard against my ribs. "You act like this cold, calculating man. All business and threats and intimidation. But then you say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like feelings aren't weakness."
I catch her wrist, holding her hand against my face. Her skin is warm from the shower. "They can be. In my world, they usually are."
"But?"
The word hangs between us.
"But you're not a weakness," I say slowly, testing the truth of it. "You're something else."
"What?"
I don't have an answer. Not yet.
Instead, I pull her closer, settling her against my chest. She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine like she belongs there. Like she's always belonged there.
"So," I say against her hair. "This TV marathon."
She goes still. "Yeah?"
"One condition."
"Which is?"
"You pick the show. But I get to ask questions."
Her laugh vibrates through me. "You want to ask questions during the show? That's, like, the cardinal sin of binge-watching."
"I don't know these rules."
"Clearly." She tilts her head back to look at me, and the smile on her face does something dangerous to my chest. "Fine. But if you talk during the important parts, I'm kicking you out of your own bedroom."
"Noted."
She settles back against me, reaching for the remote on the nightstand. The screen flickers to life, and she starts scrolling through options.
I don't watch the screen.
I watch her.
The way her nose scrunches when she dismisses a show. The way she mouths the titles to herself. The way she's completely comfortable in my space, in my robe, in my bed.
This is dangerous, the logical part of my brain whispers. She makes you soft. She makes you vulnerable. She makes you want things you swore you'd never want.
I tell that voice to shut the fuck up.
"This one," Kristen announces, selecting something called Outer Banks. "It's about treasure hunting and rich kids versus poor kids and lots of dramatic running through swamps."
"Sounds terrible."
"It's amazing." She hits play and curls deeper into my arms. "Now shush."
I don't shush. I ask questions through the entire first episode—who is that, why are they doing that, why doesn't he just tell her—until Kristen threatens to smother me with a pillow.
I've never been more content in my life.