17. Silas
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
T hick, suffocating heat wrapped its way around every nerve ending like a vice. My body ached, hips moving of their own accord, grinding into the mattress in slow rolls before I even knew I was awake.
My eyes cracked open, vision hazy, sheets tangled around my legs, damp with sweat clinging to my skin. Heat licked up my spine, the kind that had nothing to do with a fever and everything to do with her.
I tried to swallow down the feelings—tried to shake off the last remnants of the dream clinging to me like a brand. But it wouldn’t leave me.
Because in my mind, I was still there. In my dream. On my knees. For her.
Face buried between her thighs, hands gripping them, holding her open, spreading her wider as I worked my tongue against her. Slow at first, savouring it, teasing her with flicks and lazy strokes until she was squirming, moaning, her fingers tightening in my hair, yanking me closer.
Cazzo.
I squeezed my eyes shut. My cock was throbbing, painfully hard, practically begging me to grind against the sheets again. My body was working against me, chasing something it couldn’t have, something it shouldn’t have.
What would she taste like? Would she be wet enough to drown in?
STOP.
Groaning, I rolled onto my back, dragging my hands over my face like it might be enough to block out the sheer stupidity radiating off me. This was ridiculous. I was acting like a goddamn idiot. Grinding into my own mattress like I was nineteen again, like I had no self-control.
Like I wasn’t a thirty-four-year-old man that’d spent years keeping himself in check.
But my body had a mind of its own. And it was aching, bad.
I shifted, gritting my teeth as the throbbing between my legs made itself impossible to ignore. Hard enough to hurt, pressed tight against my boxers, every tiny drag of fabric sending sharp, agonising jolts through me.
I exhaled sharply, lifting my head to glare down at the very source of my problems.
“You can fucking stop that right now.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch of compliance. Little shit.
The second I stepped into the shower, the freezing cold water hit like a slab of ice to the chest, a sharp, punishing shock that sent every capillary, vein and muscle locking up.
I needed it. Needed the freeze, the clarity, the reminder that I was in control here, not whatever depraved bullshit my subconscious had been feeding me all night.
Slowly, the throbbing between my legs dulled, my cock softening under the relentless stream of freezing water. My breath evened out, but the tension in my chest? That stayed.
She wanted to see my face. But that was off-limits. That meant she’d know me. And that was a one-way track to pain.
But I’d panicked. Convinced myself it wouldn’t hurt to give her something. A compromise. A glimpse. Just my body. That was all.
So I’d sent it. The picture. My chest, my abs, the ink marking my skin. A small offering.
I thought that’d be it. That she’d take it and be satisfied. That it would stop her curiosity.
But no. The devious little witch had sent one right back.
Her ass.
Fuck. Fuck.
The photo had been dimly lit, shadows curling over the curve of her bare skin, making the shape of her even more devastating.
No underwear. Nothing but smooth, perfect flesh.
I’d studied it for hours. It was the best damn ass I’d ever seen.
Full. Soft. A masterpiece of a body that I already knew would feel like heaven under my hands.
My brain had been stuck in the same vicious loop all damn night.
Bite marks. Bruises. Tongue tracing the curve of her spine, hands gripping, kneading, worshipping every inch.
I wanted to pull her underwear down with my teeth. Spread her open. Wrap my arms around her thighs. Drag my mouth over every inch, licking, sucking and devouring, until she had to push me away because she couldn’t physically take any more.
I wanted to be on my knees, I wanted her to use me. To shove me back. Ride my face. Grind down until I was drowning, until I was begging for more.
And then I wanted to flip her over, press her down, and fuck her senseless.
Not hard. Not rough. But deep. Slow. Worshipping.
Oh, and the damn vibrator. Lying in full view on her bed.
Had she used it right after? Had she looked at my picture, parted those pretty thighs, touched herself, made herself come with that thing while thinking of me?
The thought sent a fresh wave of heat clawing through my stomach despite the freezing water, and my cock pulsed, already thickening again, blood rushing south like I had no goddamn control over my body.
Eight years.
Eight fucking years of keeping my hands to myself. Of avoiding situations that could lead to something more. Of making sure I never slipped, never let anything or anyone in.
Even touching myself had become pointless. There was no relief. No satisfaction. Just an empty, mechanical motion that felt more like a reminder of everything I wouldn’t let myself have. The pleasure never lasted. It never filled the space it was supposed to.
Because it was never just about sex. Never just about getting off. Of course I liked sex. But it was what came after—the shift. The expectation. The emotional offering they wanted from me.
And I could never give that. Never wanted to.
Some brushed it off. Others looked at me like I was evil incarnate, like my refusal to give them more made me fundamentally broken.
That’s when I stopped. That’s when I decided it was easier to just… not.
And for years, it wasn’t hard. I never craved the intimacy. Never felt deprived. It was like cutting out a bad habit—something that no longer served me, something I was better off without.
But then Lilith happened.
There was nothing empty about her. Nothing mechanical. Nothing cold or sharp.
My teeth clenched, breath ragged, nails scraping against the tile as I let my hand drift lower. Every nerve burned, every muscle locked, the anticipation prickling my skin with heat.
I hesitated, just for a second, then— fuck it.
The second my fingers wrapped around my cock, a choked, wrecked noise tore from my throat.
Gesù.
A tremor ran through me, knees nearly buckling at the sensation—heat, pressure, the overwhelming relief of touch.
I stroked once, a slow, measured pull from base to tip, my breath stalling as heat shot straight through my stomach.
It wasn’t enough, not even close.
I stroked again, tighter this time, my breathing breaking into uneven gasps, abs flexing as I let my head tilt back against the shower wall, eyes squeezing shut .
The friction was good, but not enough. Not wet enough, not hot enough, not fucking tight enough.
I sucked in a ragged breath and spat into my palm, slicking my cock up better, hotter, rougher and— fuck yes, that was it.
My other hand shot up, tangling in my hair, yanking just like she had in the dream, sending a sharp pulse of pain straight to my cock that made my whole body twitch.
Cazzo, sì, sì, sì.
I was losing myself, falling apart with the memory of her, of her tattoos, the delicate black lines that wove along her skin, begging to be kissed, marked, worshipped.
My hips snapped frantically as I fucked into my fist, the friction so good, too good, fucking perfect.
I wanted to be on my knees for her. I wanted her to shove me down, make me beg for it.
“Please—” The word ripped from my throat, unbidden and desperate.
I couldn’t stop.
My hand stayed gripped on my cock whilst the other raked over my chest, nails leaving deep red marks across my skin.
I wanted her knees planted on either side of my ribs, her hand gripping my jaw, forcing me to meet her stormy silver eyes as she smirked down at me.
I groaned louder, the rhythm of my strokes turning relentless, hips thrusting forward, chasing it, chasing her .
I wanted to bury my face between her thighs, taste her pussy, worship her, drown in her until my lungs burned, until she was shaking and whimpering and clutching at me like I was the only thing keeping her grounded.
I wanted her legs wrapped around my shoulders, her body arching, back hitting the mattress as she begged me to stop, begged me not to stop.
“Ti prego—”
I need her. I need her. I need her.
Everything broke.
My breath came fast, broken, shuddering out of me in ragged moans as my stomach clenched and my legs shook. My orgasm slammed into me, violent and all-consuming. My cock pulsed, spilling hot, thick, and messy over my stomach, my hand, the tile.
My knees damn near gave out as I sagged against the wall, forehead pressed to the cold ceramic, heart slamming against my ribs, muscles twitching as I milked every last pulse of pleasure from myself.
I hadn’t come like that—hadn’t come at all… Fuck.
I swallowed hard, letting the water wash away the evidence, but it did nothing to erase the thought of her. Exhaling slowly, I pressed my fingers into my temples, like I could push the thought out, bury it and suffocate before it could turn into more .
But it was already too late.
She was there, lodged beneath my ribs.
I wanted her. Not just in passing. Not just in the way a man wants a woman. It was deeper than that. Hungrier.
“Sei un coglione,” I muttered to myself, slamming my hand against the temperature dial, cranking it down even lower until the water stung like needles against my skin.
Good.
I deserved it.
I had no right to be thinking about her like this.
What was wrong with me?
The stunt in the shower didn’t help.
Neither did the coffee. Neither did throwing myself into back-to-back meetings, forcing my attention to budgets and expansion plans, AI integrations, software development timelines—shit I usually lived for.
Nor did the mind-numbing rhythm of answering emails, not the tech updates from my CTO, not the quarterly revenue breakdowns or investor check-ins. Not the code reviews, not the system security audits, not even the hiring strategy for our next big acquisition.
Nothing helped, because all I could think of was Lilith.
Lilith in my bed. Lilith in nothing but moonlight. Lilith barefoot in the kitchen. Lilith in one of my shirts. Lilith’s picture burning a hole through my damn phone screen.
Lilith, who hadn’t texted me all day.
Had I pushed too far? Had my moment of panic ruined it all?
The thought twisted like a knife in my gut.
I tried to tell myself that maybe she just needed a little space, that I didn’t need to smother her.
But then I’d caught myself ordering her lunch.
I’d passed by the bookstore, hands shoved deep in my pockets, just to see her working mechanically, stacking shelves, smiling at customers like everything was fine.
Like she wasn’t ignoring me.
Like I wasn’t losing my mind.
I needed to know.
Needed to know if she was okay .
So now, I was stood across the street, watching as she locked the door. She didn’t look up. Didn’t glance around. Didn’t see me as she started walking.
Silas
Hey. Are you okay?
She kept walking. Didn’t even pull out her phone. I clenched my jaw under the scarf, forcing my breath through my nose, forcing myself to stay calm.
My pulse pounded as I typed again.
Silas
No shouting tonight?
A long moment passed before her shoulders rose with a sigh. She yanked her phone from her pocket, the screen casting a glow over her face, and typed.
One word.
Lilith
No.
The words sat there, glaring back at me.
Flat. Distant. Dismissive.
Something clawed its way up my throat, raw and burning.
What did that mean?
No, she wasn’t shouting?
No, she wasn’t okay?
A tight, suffocating knot coiled in my chest.
I fired back another text.
Silas
What’s going on?
I watched as the little bubble popped up, disappeared, popped up again.
Lilith
Nothing.
My fingers tightened around my phone, a sharp pulse drumming at the base of my skull.
The city lights blurred around me, dull and unfocused, drowned out by the pounding in my ears. I was trailing her from across the street, like I always did, keeping my distance, keeping my pace in time with hers.
Except she wasn’t looking at me. She wasn’t looking at her phone. She wasn’t looking anywhere but ahead. Like I wasn’t even there .
My lungs squeezed.
I wanted to say something.
I wanted to run across the street, close the space, fix whatever I’d broken.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just followed. Step for step. Matching her movements. Breath tight. Chest burning.
By the time we reached her house, my pulse was a thunderstorm, rattling every inch of my body.
She climbed the steps without checking her phone, without turning around to look at me, without giving me one of her usual sharp, witty little retorts.
She just walked inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
And that was it.
No ‘goodnight, Mr. Stalker.’
No ‘ are you coming in to murder me?’
No ‘ fuck off, creep.’
Just silence. Just nothing.
I stood there, staring at the door, my fists clenching and unclenching, my mind running in circles.
Shit.
I’d done it.
I’d ruined it.