Chapter 20 Alexandra
Chapter Twenty: Alexandra
I wake to sunlight.
Not the harsh glare of fluorescent lights or the grey wash of predawn through grimy windows.
Real sunlight, warm and golden, streaming through the gap in the curtains and painting stripes across the bed.
Across Leone's chest. Across our tangled legs and the sheets we've kicked to the foot of the mattress sometime during the night.
I lie still, just breathing. Feeling his arm across my waist. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. The warmth of him surrounding me, solid and real and alive.
We made it.
The thought surfaces unbidden, carrying with it a wave of relief.
We really fucking made it.
I don't know what comes next. Giovanni Russo or The Silent, or whatever boogeyman is still out there, hiding behind layers of shell corporations and shadow networks. The Silent, if they're real, are still pulling strings we can't see.
But right now, in this moment, in weak morning light with Leone's heartbeat against my spine, none of it matters.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, and turn to face him.
He's still asleep. Actually asleep, not the light doze of a soldier always ready to spring into action.
His face is relaxed, the hard lines softened, and he looks younger.
Vulnerable in a way he never allows himself to be when he's awake.
His lips are slightly parted, and his breath comes slow and even, and I think: this is the man who killed for me. Who defied his don for me. Who carried my hair tie into battle like a talisman.
This is the man I love.
I reach out and trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. Light. Barely touching. His skin is warm, rough with morning stubble. He stirs but doesn't wake.
I trace lower. Down his neck. Across his collarbone. Over the ridge of his shoulder and down his arm, following the contours of muscle and bone. He's beautiful. I've thought it before, in stolen moments, but I've never let myself linger on it. Never let myself simply look.
I look now.
He's built for violence. Broad shoulders, thick arms, hands that have done terrible things. But there's grace in him too. The way he moves, the way he holds himself, the way his body seems to know exactly where it is in space at all times. A monsters awareness, honed by decades of practice.
And he's mine.
The thought sends a shiver through me. Possessive. Primal. The same feeling I saw in his eyes when he said "mine" and expected me to say it back.
I lean in and press my lips to his shoulder. He stirs again. A low sound escapes him, not quite a word.
I kiss lower. His chest. The edge of the faded bruise, careful not to press. The ridges of his abdomen, the muscles tensing involuntarily under my mouth.
His hand finds my hair. Tangles in it. Not guiding, touching. Feeling.
"Alexandra." His voice is rough with sleep. "What are you doing?"
"Waking you up."
"I'm awake."
"Not awake enough."
I slide lower. Kiss the line of his hip. The trail of dark hair that leads downward. I can feel him hardening already, his body responding to my mouth even before I reach my destination.
"You don't have to," he says.
"I know." I look up at him. His eyes are open now, dark and heavy-lidded, watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench. "I want to."
I curl my fingers around him. He's thick, hard, already straining toward me. I stroke once, twice, watching his face, watching the way his jaw tightens and his eyes flutter.
"I've been thinking about this," I say conversationally. "About what you taste like in the morning. About what sounds you make when you lose control."
"Alexandra..."
"Shh." I lean down and press a kiss to the tip. He jerks, hips lifting off the mattress, and I smile against his skin. "Let me."
I take him into my mouth.
He groans. A deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body. His hand tightens in my hair, pulling ever so slightly. Anchoring himself to me while I take him apart.
I start slow. Exploring. Learning the shape of him, the taste, the weight on my tongue.
He's salty and warm and undeniably male, and I like it.
Like the way he fills my mouth, the way his breath catches when I swirl my tongue around the head, the way his fingers flex in my hair every time I take him deeper.
"Fuck." The word comes out strangled. "That's... god, that's..."
I hum around him, and he curses again, hips bucking involuntarily. I pin them down with one hand, holding him in place, controlling the pace. He lets me. This man who controls everything, who gives orders and expects obedience, he lies back and lets me take what I want.
The power of it is intoxicating.
I work him with my mouth and my hand, finding a rhythm, building pressure.
I watch his face the whole time. The way his brow furrows.
The way his lips part around ragged breaths.
The way his eyes keep closing and then forcing themselves open again, like he can't bear to miss a second of watching me.
"You look," he manages. "You look so..."
"So what?"
"Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine." The last word comes out like a growl. "You look like mine."
"I am yours." I pull back, let my lips drag along his length, and watch him shudder. "But right now, you're mine."
I take him deep again. Deeper this time, relaxing my throat, letting him slide past the resistance until my nose brushes the hair at his base. He makes a sound I've never heard from him before. Raw. Desperate. The sound of a man coming undone.
"Alexandra, I'm going to... if you don't stop, I'm going to..."
I don't stop.
I want this. Want to feel him lose control, want to taste him when he breaks, want to be the reason his carefully constructed walls come crashing down. I suck harder, move faster, and I feel the moment he tips over the edge.
His body tenses. His hand fists in my hair. He says my name like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word he knows, and then he's coming, hot and sudden, flooding my mouth while I swallow and swallow and don't pull away.
I work him through it. Gentle now, easing him down, pressing soft kisses to his hip, his stomach, the inside of his thigh. His hand loosens in my hair, strokes through the strands, trembling slightly.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes.
I crawl up his body and settle on top of him, chin resting on his chest, grinning up at him.
"Good morning."
He stares at me. His eyes are hazy, unfocused, still swimming in the aftermath. "That was..."
"Mmm?"
"I don't have words."
"That's a first."
He laughs. The sound is rough, breathless, and so fucking beautiful that it makes my heart ache. Then his hands are on my hips, flipping me onto my back, and he's looming over me with a look in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
"Your turn," he says.
"You don't have to..."
"I know. I want to." He throws my own words back at me, and I feel a flush creep up my cheeks. "Besides. I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything."
"Then consider this interest." He kisses me. Deep and slow, tasting himself on my lips, not seeming to mind. "Compound interest. Accrued over weeks of wanting to do this in the morning and not having the time."
He kisses down my body. My throat. My collarbone. The swell of my breasts, already aching for attention. He takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks, and I arch off the bed, gasping.
"Sensitive this morning," he murmurs against my skin.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I grab for his hair, but he's already moving lower, kissing down my stomach, nuzzling into the soft skin below my navel. His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them, making room for his shoulders.
"I've been thinking about this too," he says, echoing my earlier words. "About how you taste. About the sounds you make when you come on my tongue."
"Oh my Godddd."
"Shh. Daddy will do just fine." He presses a kiss to my inner thigh.
His mouth finds me.
I cry out. Can't help it. His tongue traces through my folds, licking me the way I did him, and the sensation is overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time.
He takes his time. Licks and sucks and explores, finding the spots that make me gasp, the rhythm that makes me moan. He's good at this. Better than good. He’s been studying me for weeks and has become an expert on what I need and when.
"There," I manage, when his tongue circles my clit. "Right there, don't stop, don't..."
He doesn't stop. He focuses on that spot, that perfect spot, and adds his fingers, sliding two inside me, curling upward, and the dual sensation is so intense I see stars.
"Come for me," he says against my flesh. "Let me taste you."
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, my back arching, my thighs clamping around his head, my hands fisting in the sheets.
I cry out his name, moans, sighs, incoherent and desperate, and he works me through it, letting me come down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs while I tremble and gasp.
He crawls back up my body. Settles between my legs. I can feel him hard again, already, pressing against my entrance.
"Again?" I manage, still breathless.
"I told you." He kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips. "Interest. Compound interest."
He pushes inside, the tip of his cock working in, inch by inch as my breath catches. I fucking love this feeling. Being stuffed full of him.
A raspy groan escapes me, my chest rattling with the force of it.
"I love you," he says. "I don't say it enough. I'm not good at saying it. But I love you, Alexandra. More than I've ever loved anything."
"I love you too." I pull him down, press my forehead to his. "Now show me."
He moves.
This is different from before. Not desperate, not frantic, not the urgent claiming of two people afraid they might lose each other. This is slow and deep and tender, his body moving against mine in long, lazy strokes that build pleasure like a tide coming in.
I wrap my legs around his waist. Pull him closer. Meet his thrusts with my own, finding our rhythm, moving together like we've been doing this forever.
He shifts his angle, and suddenly every stroke drags across something inside me that makes my body clench. I gasp, dig my nails into his back, and feel the pressure building again.
"Close," I breathe. "I'm so close."
"I know, love." He reaches between us, finds my clit, rubs in tight circles while he moves inside me. "Such a good fucking girl for me."
The combination of his cock and his fingers and his voice is too much. I tip over the edge, crying out, and I feel him follow a moment later, burying himself deep and groaning my name into my neck.
"Best morning ever," I manage.
He laughs against my skin. "Agreed."
The sunlight has shifted while we were occupied, crawling across the bed, warming our intertwined bodies.
"So… what’s on the docket today?" I ask.
"We get dressed. We eat breakfast. We go back to work." He pulls back, looks down at me.
"Charlotte is going to need time to trace the financial network. Claudio will keep her safe, but it's going to be slow work. And the Castillo’s are still a threat. Marco is wounded, angry, looking for someone to blame."
"I know all of that." I reach up, trace the line of his jaw. "But that's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
"I meant us. What happens with us?"
"We live together, eat together, breathe together. What’s mine is yours and yours is mine.
I protect you and you guard my heart. That is what happens with us.
And sometime in the future, when everything is safe and we are able to slow down and breathe, we make babies, find a nice plot of land.
Maybe you garden and I tend some livestock.
We build the life we want. Until then… we fight, we love, and we fuck like there’s no tomorrow. ”
I pull him down and kiss him again. Longer this time. Deeper. A promise of my own.
Outside, the world waits. The war waits. The conspiracy waits, layers upon layers of shadow and secrets, a web that stretches further than we can see.
The darkness is out there somewhere, watching. Planning. The man Aurelio thought he killed twenty years ago, risen from the dead to orchestrate a war that's claimed dozens of lives.
The world is dangerous. The future is uncertain. There are no guarantees.
But right now, in weak morning light, with Leone's heartbeat under my palm and his eyes on my face, I feel something I haven't felt in years.
Safe.
Not because the world is less dangerous. But because I'm not facing it alone.
He chose me. I chose him back. The rest is noise.
"Ready?" I ask.
He smiles and it blows me away. The smile of a man who has finally found someone worth fighting for.
"With you?" He tucks my hair behind my ear. That gesture. The one that started everything. "Always."
We get up. We shower together, which takes longer than it should because his hands keep wandering and I keep letting them. We dress. We eat breakfast in the kitchen, side by side, trading bites of toast and stealing sips of each other's coffee.
A lifetime of puzzles and decoding and war and bloodshed.
As long as he’s by my side, I’d do it all. Over and over again.