Chapter 22 #2
I watch Zoe laugh at something on screen, the blue light dancing across her face. She's curled up on the couch now, legs tucked beneath her, completely engrossed in this ridiculous movie about people whose biggest problem is figuring out which attractive person to date.
Something shifts in my chest. A strange, unfamiliar ache that has nothing to do with indigestion from the stale chips.
Fuck.
I know this feeling. I swore I'd never feel it again after Bianca. Yet here it is, creeping past all my defenses, settling into my bones like it belongs there.
I'm falling for her. This maddening, confusing woman who challenges me at every turn. Who I want to trust, but I can't.
Not yet.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I lie, reaching for more chips to hide the moment.
She's become essential somehow. Her sharp tongue. Her fearlessness. Even the way she pisses me off feels necessary now, like rainfall after drought.
"You're missing the best part," she says, nodding toward the screen.
But I'm not. The best part is right here, illuminated in the glow of this forgotten house. The way her fingers absently twist a strand of hair. The slight curve of her lips when she finds something amusing.
It terrifies me. More than any gun pointed at my head. More than any business rival. Because loving someone means creating a weakness – a soft, vulnerable spot in my armor where the world can strike.
I lost Bianca. I couldn't protect her. The thought of failing Zoe the same way makes my blood run cold.
Yet I can't stop this feeling. It's like trying to hold back the tide with my bare hands.
"You're still staring," she says without looking away from the screen.
"You're still worth looking at."
The words come out gruffer than intended. Her eyes flick to mine, surprised by the honesty.
Christ, I'm in love with my wife.
The irony would be fucking hilarious if it weren't happening to me. To this fake marriage.
I suddenly stand from the couch, needing space from these unwelcome feelings. The walls of this house feel like they're closing in, saturated with too many memories—both old and newly forming.
"What's wrong?" Zoe rises too, approaching me with caution. Her eyes search my face, looking for answers I'm not ready to give.
"Nothing. I need a drink." My voice comes out rougher than intended. I run a hand through my hair, trying to recalibrate. "Don't suppose Enzo stocks this place with decent whiskey."
"You can't survive two hours without alcohol?" Zoe teases, stepping closer.
Her mouth curves into that maddening smirk—the one that makes me want to either shut her up or kiss her senseless.
"You think you're very fucking funny, don't you?" I growl.
"I think I'm hilarious," she counters, tilting her face up to mine. "And I think you're afraid."
"Of what?"
"This." She gestures between us. "Whatever's happening here."
Something in me snaps. I move without thinking, backing her against the wall, caging her with my body. Her breath catches as my hands plant on either side of her head.
"You want to know what I'm afraid of, lupacchiotta?" I press closer, feeling her heart hammer against my chest. "I'm afraid of how much I want you. How much I think about you. How fucking impossible it is to get you out of my head."
Her pupils dilate, her breath comes faster. I can feel the heat of her through our clothes.
"I'm not supposed to want this," I murmur, my lips hovering just above hers. "Not with you. Not with anyone."
"Then don't," she whispers, but her body betrays her. She arches slightly, pressing herself against me.
"Too late." I slide one hand to cradle her face, my thumb tracing her lower lip. "Way too fucking late."
I step closer to Zoe, my control slipping with each passing second. The movie's forgotten, its soundtrack a distant noise as I focus entirely on her.
"Take off your clothes," I command, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that leaves no room for argument. "And get on the couch. On your hands and knees."
She holds my gaze as her fingers find the buttons of her dress. One by one, they come undone, revealing smooth skin inch by tantalizing inch. She lets the fabric slide from her shoulders before reaching behind to unhook her bra.
My jaw clenches as her breasts spill free, perfect and begging for my touch. But I don't move. Not yet.
"All of it," I remind her, watching as she shimmies out of her underwear.
Naked now, she moves to the couch, positioning herself as I commanded—on all fours, her back arched slightly. The sight of her like this, offering herself to me, drives me crazy.
I stand back, simply taking in the view. The elegant curve of her spine. The way her hair falls over one shoulder. The smooth, perfect skin of her ass.
"Damiano," she calls, her voice thick with need.
"Patience, Zoe," I murmur, circling the couch, committing every angle to memory.
When I finally approach, I trail my fingertips down her back, barely touching, feeling her shiver beneath my hand. I trace patterns on her skin, moving lower, closer to where she wants me most.
"Please," she whispers, looking back at me over her shoulder.
"Please what?" I ask, grazing my fingers along the inside of her thighs.
"Touch me."
Her breathless plea stokes the fire in my veins. I drop to my knees behind her, spreading her legs wider, exposing her completely to my gaze. She's already wet for me, her arousal evident and intoxicating.
I lean forward, placing a kiss on each cheek of her ass before moving to where she's aching for me. At the first broad stroke of my tongue, she cries out, her back arching deeper.
Before I can catch my breath, he scoops me into his arms. I feel weightless as he carries me from the living room through the darkened hallway and into what must be the master bedroom. The moonlight streams through sheer curtains, casting everything in silvery light.
He lays me down on the bed, the cool sheets beneath my heated skin. I slide my hand down my body, between my legs, my fingers finding the wetness he created.
His eyes lock onto the movement of my hand as I begin to touch myself, circling slowly.
"Fuck," he growls, his hands moving to his shirt buttons.
I continue pleasuring myself while watching him undress. He tears his shirt open impatiently, buttons flying, revealing the magnificent canvas of his chest and torso.
His pants come next, dropping to the floor as he kicks them aside. Standing only in black boxer briefs now, I can see the impressive outline of his arousal straining against the fabric.
A dangerous smile curves his lips as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and slides them down his powerful thighs. My breath catches in my throat as he stands completely naked before me.
Every inch of him is perfect—hard, defined muscles, powerful thighs, and his cock standing proudly between them. My fingers move faster between my legs as I drink him in.
His tattoos tell stories I want to trace with my tongue.
He puts on a condom and then he moves toward me, eyes never leaving mine, watching my fingers work against my own flesh. The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable, dangerous and consuming.
"Move your hand," he commands, his voice deep and husky. "That's mine now."
He positions himself between my thighs, spreading my legs wider. His hands grip my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath my hipbones. The head of his cock teases my entrance, circling, gathering my wetness.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.
I meet his gaze, his dark eyes burning with something primal. Slowly, so slowly I want to scream, he pushes inside me. The stretch burns in the most delicious way, my body yielding to his invasion inch by torturous inch.
"Fuck," I gasp, my back arching off the bed.
When he's fully seated, he pauses, giving me a moment to adjust to his size. Then he pulls back until just the tip remains before slamming forward in one powerful thrust.
A cry tears from my throat as pleasure rockets through me. He sets a relentless pace, his hips snapping against mine, each thrust harder than the last.
"That's it," he growls, his fingers digging into my flesh. "Let me hear you."
I bite my lip, trying to contain the sounds he's forcing from me. He notices immediately, his hand shooting up to grip my jaw.
"Don't hold back," he commands, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. "I want everyone to hear you. I want the entire fucking America to know who's making you scream."
His words push me closer to the edge, and when his thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, I can't hold back anymore. My cries echo in the room, getting louder with each powerful stroke.
A last scream tears from my throat as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
"That's it," he pants above me, his rhythm never faltering. "Let them hear who owns this perfect pussy."