Chapter 18
eighteen
Vincenzo
Idon’t want apology or pity shadowing us tonight, so I guide his hands to my belt.
The message is plain: strip me, lay me open, see I’m still yours. He gets it. His fingers work the buckle with steady precision that belies the tremor in his breath. Each piece of clothing he peels away lands on the floor like a quiet promise.
He shudders when my fingers slip under the waistband of his trousers, and that tells me he’s barely keeping his restraint on a short leash. I could tease him for it—I used to—but what rises in my throat now isn’t mockery. It’s gratitude so sharp I almost choke on the weight of it.
I lean forward and mouth each of his scars, silently cataloging what I owe in return, until he hisses my name and braces a hand on the headboard.
“Vincenzo,” he says, low and shaking. “If you keep that up, I’ll forget to go slow.”
“That’s the plan.” I nip his sternum, then hook my thumbs in his waistband and tug. “Off.”
He shucks the last of his clothes with none of the showmanship he used to wield like a weapon—no smirk, no lingering pause for effect—only urgency that edges on reverence.
When he settles back over me, skin to skin at last, the first slide of him along my thigh pulls a gasp straight from my lungs. He curses in Russian under his breath, apology and hunger folded into one syllable, then eases down onto his elbows so our foreheads brush.
“Say you want this,” he whispers, even though my body’s already arching into his.
“I never stopped.” I seal the vow with a kiss that tastes of salt and something I refuse to call tears, and he sinks into it like the last step toward shelter after years in exile.
We move slowly, rebuilding something delicate, brick by brick. I guide his hand between my legs, show him the slick proof that I’m ready, that I’ve been ready since the first moment he walked into my gym.
His thumb circles the head of my cock, gentle and sure, until I can’t string coherent thoughts, until I’m panting into the curve of his shoulder.
He reaches for the lube in the nightstand—my hands fumble for it with him, our fingers knocking together, laughter bubbling up despite the edge of desperation.
“Still useless at being patient,” he mutters, lubing up his fingers.
“You never complained.” I bite the shell of his ear. He groans, slides one finger in, then a second, stretching me with a pace measured more by the jerk of my hips than the clock. I clutch his wrist and push down harder.
“Easy, My King,” he says, voice thin. “I’m not letting you rush past this.”
“Coward,” I breathe, though my own eyes blur when he brushes my prostate.
A feral grin splits his face. “Fine. But remember, you begged.” With that, he withdraws, coats himself in hurried strokes, and positions himself at my hole.
I brace my heels on the mattress, stare into the blue storm of his gaze, and nod. He pushes forward, slow but relentless, filling me inch by inch until his hips meet mine. The stretch burns sweetly, a reminder that some aches are meant to be worshiped, not cured.
Neither of us moves; we just breathe each other’s air and let our bodies remember. Then he pulls back and thrusts shallowly, testing, watching. I roll my hips up in answer, and the sound he makes is half curse, half prayer.
He sets a rhythm meant for breaking hearts open—long, slow strokes that drag every nerve to the surface, no rush, no violence, just the inexorable certainty of tide against shore.
It’s when sweat slicks our skin and words dissolve into gasps that he finally spots what I’ve kept hidden for eight years. His gaze drops to my chest, pupils blown, and freezes.
“Vincenzo.” My name comes out raw enough to rake gravel. He lifts onto one shaking arm, the other hand splayed over my ribs, thumb tracing the ink just above my heart.
Никола?й
I watch him read it twice before understanding hits, and his breath leaves him in a broken rush. He drags his fingers across the tattoo like he expects it to smear.
“You…” he says, hoarse. “My name… You put my name on you.”
“Where it’s safest,” I answer, my throat tight. “Where no one could strip it away, not even memory.”
His eyes shine, but no tears fall. Dragovich men don’t cry, but the wet shimmer is enough. He bows his head, presses his lips to the ink, and I feel the tremor in them, feel every apology he never said etched into that kiss.
“I thought I’d lost every trace of my heart,” he whispers against my skin. “And you… You carried me on yours.”
“Always,” I repeat, fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring him there. “So, carry me now.”
He lifts his head, tears sheen replaced by heat so fierce it steals my breath. Without another word, he rocks into me deeper, like he’s fitting himself to the shape etched over my heart.
Every thrust drags across that spot inside that makes the edges of my vision blur, and the rhythm builds until language becomes irrelevant. The only sounds left are the slap of skin, the rasp of sheets, and the ragged chorus of our breathing.
Each time I meet his thrust, he murmurs something in Russian—endearments I once forced him to translate, curses that once tasted like war—tonight they taste like home.
I answer with Italian fragments sworn in church and broken in alleyways, using devotion for kindling. Our bodies find an accord no treaty ever managed, a truce written in salt and heat instead of blood.
He changes the angle—just a tiny shift of hips that tips my pelvis higher—and the head of his cock grinds over my prostate so hard stars rip across the blackout curtain of my vision, galaxies forming behind my eyelids.
A choked cry punches out of me, and he licks sweat off my upper lip. “There?” he asks, voice fraying. “Right fucking there?”
“Don’t you dare move from it,” I rasp, grabbing the nape of his neck, yanking him down until his teeth clack mine.
He laughs into my mouth, then anchors his forearms beside my head and hammers in exactly that spot again, again, again, until my calves cramp, feet planted on the mattress, hips jerking like a man trying to crawl inside the fire that’s eating him alive.
The headboard thuds a steady drumbeat against the wall; somewhere beyond the door, I imagine security protocols flagging the rhythmic impacts and deciding no one wants to interrupt the Pakhan at this.
“Eight fucking years,” he says, hips rolling in another deep stroke that knocks the breath out of both of us.
“I tried to damn myself quietly, but your ghost kept screaming.” He bends, mouths the tattoo again, tongue circling the Cyrillic letters.
Gooseflesh erupts across my chest. “I never guessed you’d written my scream under your skin. ”
“Permanently,” I manage, voice splintering. “Not even hell can scrub it out.”
A growl rumbles in his throat—pure approval, filthy and reverent in the same beat. He shifts abruptly, slides an arm under my lower back, tilts my pelvis higher until my shoulders and head are pressed into the mattress, my ass on his thighs.
The new depth spears sensation so brutal my mouth drops open in a silent howl. Liquid heat coils messily and unstoppable, pulling my balls tight. He fucks me in long, ruthless strokes, each glide dragging across the place that makes white noise hiss in my ears.
Sweat drips from his hairline, lands on my chest, streaks through the ink of his name, and mingles with the sheen oiling my skin.
I brace both hands on his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons as I surge upward to meet him again and again. He slips a hand between us, wraps my cock, strokes in time with his thrusts, eyes never leaving mine.
“Come with me,” he says, voice shattered. “Give it back, all of it.”
When release hits, it tears a shout from my chest. I spill across his hand and my abs, pulse pounding hard enough to distort sound.
He follows with a groan pitched so low it vibrates through my bones, hips locking as he comes inside me, heat flooding, chain reaction holding us motionless until sensation blurs into aftershock.
He collapses on top of me but catches himself on trembling elbows before crushing me. I haul him down anyway, wrap my legs around his waist, keep him buried inside while the storm subsides.
We lie tangled, the room echoing with slowing breaths, sweat cooling on skin, heartbeats syncing like they never learned to beat apart.
When Nikolaj finally softens enough that the last twitch eases, I flex around him, unwilling to let him slip free yet. He groans, kisses the corner of my mouth, then pulls out slowly—a messy slide that makes both of us hiss.
He rolls to his side, pulls me with him, draping my leg over his hip, palm spread flat across his name on my chest like a seal. I thread our fingers together and rest them there, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing lull me to a calm I haven’t known in years.