Chapter 19 #2
“Yes,” I say. “More.”
The word, so reminiscent of last night, makes me tense for a moment as heat sweeps through me. But he doesn’t stop, just keeps working his hands over me, relaxing me again.
He gives me more. I drift for a minute, not asleep, not awake, held in the cradle of steady pressure and the low sound of his breath. When he shifts his weight, the bed moves and reminds me he’s kneeling beside me, fully present, not a dream.
His hand slides gently over the mark on the side of my breast and has me sucking in a breath. He pauses and runs his fingers over it gently. I hadn’t felt it until just now, but now that I have, it’s a small throbbing pressure that’s making sure I know it’s there.
“Does it hurt?” he murmurs.
I take a moment before answering. Yes, it does.
It’s sore and, every time his hands run over it, it sends a wave of pain radiating out of it.
But with the pain is a sweet pleasure. Knowing that it’s his mark on me.
Knowing that every throb comes from him and what he did to me.
The way he marked me, claimed me, made me his in every way possible.
“Not so much,” I finally say.
He spends a little bit more time running his hands over it, then leans down and presses his lips to the area.
My heart shudders and practically drops at his feet at that. I’m in trouble. Really big trouble.
But he just continues, not knowing the magnitude of what just happened inside me.
My lower back complains when his hands reach it. He gives that spot extra care, using heel-of-hand strokes that warm the muscle. He works around my spine, respectful of bones, coaxing the smaller muscles to soften. When he gets to the top of my hips, he pauses.
“May I go lower?” he asks, and it does something to my heart that he would ask, even after he took my body fiercely.
“Yes,” I say into the pillow.
He lowers the sheet and his hands change. Still careful, still focused on soreness, but the awareness of the place and what it means changes both of us. My breath hitches.
He slows again, as if to steady me. He works the outer edges, the places that carry more tension than I ever admit.
He kneads there, working his way inward until finally, he reaches another sore spot.
The memory of his hand coming down on my ass and what it did to me makes another wave of heat sweep through me.
I resist the urge to squirm, rub my thighs together against the wetness building up between them.
“Olivia?” he says softly.
“I’m okay,” I say, huskily. “It’s good.”
He moves to the backs of my thighs. I flinch, overwhelmed, and then melt; the muscles are the sorest part of me.
He knows it the moment he lays his hands there.
He supports the work with a palm under my knee, gently bending the leg to change the angle on the hamstring.
The pressure he uses is firm without being painful, the stroke long enough to warm, short enough to target.
“You’re very good at this,” I say, voice muffled by the pillow. I snuggle my head into it, aroused but also drifting, floating.
The numbers on the clock blur, then clear.
Then register. I tense and move to sit up quickly, but Roberto’s hand is between my shoulder blades, pressing me to the mattress.
“I’m late,” I blurt. “I have to— Let me—”
I struggle to get up, but his hold is firm and relentless. “Relax,” he says softly. “You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine.” My voice goes high in a way I hate. “I’m very much not fine. I have meetings, and deliveries to confirm, and—”
“You’re fine,” he repeats, running those soothing hands down my back and up again. Still not letting me up.
I try to turn my head to look at him. “What do—”
“I’m the boss, remember?” he says, mildly.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t just not show up,” I say, but his hands are doing the trick. I want to push up again, but can’t seem to find the energy. “We open in less than a week. Less than a week, Roberto. I can’t skip a day because I—” I search for the right word. “Because we.”
“I didn’t say skip,” he says. “I said you’re fine.”
“You’re doing that lawyer thing where your words mean something else,” I accuse.
“I am,” he says without shame. “And I meant what I said. I’ve already handled your morning.”
My mouth falls open. “Handled how?”
“I texted Caterina,” he says, deadpan.
“You texted— You texted Caterina?” Those words have me pushing against his hands again, imagining that conversation. But, again, I’m not successful, so I settle for: “You did not.”
“I did,” he says. “I told her you called me and you’re working off-site today. I told her you needed a quiet day to run confirmations and final proofs and to build the floor schedule for opening week without an army of well-meaning people interrupting you every twelve minutes.”
I blink. “You said it like that?”
“More or less,” he says. “She agreed it was sensible.”
I squint, trying to imagine Caterina saying those words. “Did she?”
“She did,” he says, and continues his work on my back. “She said to send her the final VIP seating chart by 3:00.”
I relax into the pillow with a groan. “I knew there’d be a catch.”
“There’s always a catch,” he says, amused. “But a manageable one.”
My brain reorders itself around the new information, annoyed and relieved in equal measure. “I still have to work,” I say, not quite willing to trust this version of reality.
“You’re going to,” he says.
“In your bed?” I ask, because if I don’t make a joke I might do something more dramatic like cry.
“We brought your work home, remember?” he says. Vaguely. The end of the night is a bit of a blur. “You’re free to set up wherever you want. The dining table. The office. The couch. The bed, if you wish. But I’m not leaving you alone today.”
The last sentence is gentle and absolute. It slides into me like warmth. It also triggers every reflex I have about independence.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I say carefully.
“I know,” he says. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
The phrasing changes the terrain. Not obligation. Choice.
“Why?” I ask, and I hate that it comes out small.
“Because last night was a lot,” he says simply. “Because the morning after is sometimes worse when your thoughts quiet.”
Something tender rolls through my chest. “I’m not going to fall apart,” I say, even though the possibility is not as remote as I’d like.
“I know,” he says. “But if you do, you won’t be alone in it.”
That undoes me more than anything he did last night. I look away so I don’t get weepy over eggs. He gives me the dignity of the sidelong view.
“I don’t have clothes,” I say, because practical problems are safe.
“I have a robe,” he says. “T-shirts, sweaters. Whatever you need to get you through the day.”
I’m quiet for a long moment while his hands glide over me. I can’t help that he’s working me up again, despite everything. The flutters in my stomach nearly make me moan as his hands knead my thighs again.
“I should hate how efficient you are.” I can only manage a breathy murmur.
“You don’t,” he says, and he’s right.
His hands work their way farther down, kneading and caressing my calves.
When he is done, he presses one last kiss to the back of my thigh, making me shiver.
His hands drift up the sides of my legs and over my back, skimming my ass and lower back, making my body feel like liquid. A soft sound escapes me.
My brain feels slow, syrupy with ease. He has successfully dismantled every line of defense I have.
His hands continue their journey, sliding between my lax thighs. I’m too blissed out to be embarrassed about how wet I am, how much I want him. His fingers find my clit, and my body jerks. He chuckles lightly. “Sensitive?” he asks.
I nod, my face pressed into the pillow.
“Let me,” he whispers. “Let me make it better.”
He doesn’t give me much of a chance to say no, not that I want to.
He keeps circling my clit with one finger, slowly and gently.
He’s not trying to make me come quickly.
He’s building the pleasure slowly, until I’m pushing my hips back into his hand, wanting more.
He takes his other hand and uses it to spread me, making me even more vulnerable to him.
He adds a second finger, tracing the rim of my entrance, teasing me.
“Roberto,” I say, a broken moan.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice low. “Tell me.”
“You,” I say. “I want you.”
He slowly pushes a finger into me, and my body clenches around it, trying to pull it deeper.
He chuckles again, a low, deep rumble that vibrates through my body.
He slides a second finger in, and my hips buck.
He curls his fingers, stroking the sensitive spot inside me, and my body lights up with pleasure.
I’m so close, but he won’t let me fall. He’s keeping me right there, suspended in pleasure, and it’s both torture and the most exquisite thing I have ever felt.
I’m trying to push back against him, to get him to go faster, harder, but he’s holding me still, in complete control of my body.
I whine, a pathetic little sound that I’m almost embarrassed by.
“Patience,” he says softly.
I want to be mad, but I can’t. I’m too busy floating on a sea of pleasure. He keeps stroking me, a slow, steady rhythm, until I’m trembling, my whole body a bowstring of tension.
His fingers slide out of me, but before I can complain, I feel him shift behind me, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance. Automatically, I arch my back, offering myself to him.
He pushes in, slowly, filling me inch by inch. When he’s all the way in, he pauses, giving me a chance to adjust to him. I’m so full, so complete. I feel whole.
When he’s fully seated inside me, he leans over my back, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades. “Okay?” he asks.
I nod, unable to form words. I can’t remember a time I felt so full, so complete.
He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has me seeing stars.
He reaches around and starts circling my clit again, and I cry out.
He’s everywhere. He’s inside me, around me, his scent in my nose, his deep voice in my ear.
My world has narrowed to just this, just him.
“Relax for me,” he says. “Let me take care of you.”
I take a deep breath and force my body to go lax against the sheets.
His rhythm doesn't change, but it feels different. Each stroke is a wave, pulling me under before lifting me up, only to pull me under again. The steady pressure on my clit is a constant current, drawing the pleasure from every part of my body to one single, pulsing point. I’m no longer trying to meet his movements. I’m just accepting them, accepting him.
The knot in my belly begins to tighten, a slow, deep throb of pressure.
It’s different from last night. That was a flash fire.
This is a slow burn. He’s taking me somewhere new, a place I haven’t been before.
A place I didn't know existed. I can feel the pleasure coiling in my belly, hot and tight.
My breaths are coming in short, sharp pants.
“Roberto,” I gasp out. “I’m—”
“I’m right here,” he says, his voice soothing. “I’ve got you.”
His words are my undoing. The knot in my belly snaps, and pleasure, hot and intense, floods my body.
It’s a slow, rolling wave that starts at my toes and crests over my head.
My back arches, and a choked sob escapes my lips.
He doesn’t stop, his hips still moving in that same steady rhythm, drawing out my pleasure until I’m a boneless, quivering mess.
He follows me over the edge with a low groan, his body tensing before he collapses onto me. I feel the warm rush of him filling me, and a wave of possessiveness washes over me.
His.