Chapter 22 Luca
THE LAST MONTH felt longer than the previous eleven combined.
Every day dragged. Every hour crawled. I counted down—thirty days, twenty-nine days, twenty-eight—obsessively tracking the time until freedom. Until Valentino.
My behavior stayed perfect. Model prisoner. I couldn't afford a single infraction that might delay my release. David, my cellmate, found my paranoia amusing.
"You're already approved, Romano. They're letting you out. Relax."
"I'll relax when I'm through those gates."
He shook his head but didn't push it. He understood. We all understood. Freedom was everything.
Valentino visited every Saturday, same as always. But these final visits felt different. Charged with anticipation.
"Three more weeks," he said, holding my hands across the table. "Twenty-one days."
"Twenty-one days," I agreed. "What do you want to do? When I get out?"
"Hold you. Properly. Without a guard timing us."
I brought his hand to my lips, kissed his knuckles. "And after that?"
"Take you home. Lock the door. Not let you leave for at least a week."
Heat flared in his eyes. I felt it echo in my chest, lower. A year without touching him. A year of monitored calls and supervised visits and counting days.
"First thing I'm doing when we get home," I said, voice low, "is reminding you exactly who you belong to."
His breath caught. "Luca—"
"A year, Valentino. A year of wanting you. Thinking about you. Dreaming about you." I held his gaze. "I'm going to take my time. Relearn every inch of you. Make you come so many times you forget your own name."
"Jesus." His cheeks flushed. "You can't—we're in public."
"I don't care. Let me have this. Let me think about it. It's all I've got right now."
He squeezed my hands. "Three weeks. Then you can have me however you want."
"However I want," I repeated. "I'm going to hold you to that."
***
The night before release, I couldn't sleep.
David was snoring across the cell. The usual prison sounds—footsteps, distant conversations, metal doors—echoed through the darkness. My last night behind bars.
Tomorrow, I'd walk out. Valentino would be waiting. We'd go home together.
I'd survived twelve months. We'd survived twelve months. And tomorrow, we'd start rebuilding.
When morning finally came, I went through the routine one last time. Breakfast. Final processing. Signing paperwork. Collecting my belongings—wallet, keys, phone, all sealed in a bag twelve months ago.
"You're good to go, Romano," the guard said. "Try not to come back."
"Not planning on it."
I walked toward the exit. Through the final security checkpoint. Through the doors I'd walked through a year ago in handcuffs.
Out into morning sunlight and freedom.
And there, standing by his car in the parking lot, was Valentino.
He saw me and started moving. I started moving. We met in the middle and I pulled him into my arms so hard I lifted him off his feet.
"Luca." His face pressed into my neck. "God, Luca."
"I've got you." I held him tighter. "I've got you. I'm here."
We stood there for a long moment, just holding each other. No time limit. No guard watching. Just us.
When I finally pulled back to look at him, there were tears on his face.
"I can't believe you're really here," he said. "Really out."
"I'm out. I'm free. I'm yours." I kissed him—properly, deeply, the way I'd been dying to for twelve months. He kissed back just as desperately, hands fisting in my shirt.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Take me home," I said. "Please. Take me home."
The drive back to Manhattan took three hours.
Three hours of holding Valentino's hand. Three hours of looking at him, touching him, reassuring myself he was real. Three hours of anticipation building until I felt like I might combust.
"How does it feel?" he asked. "Being out?"
"Surreal. Like I'm going to wake up back in that cell." I squeezed his hand. "How are you? Really?"
"Better now that you're here. The last year was..." He trailed off. "Hard doesn't cover it."
"I know. I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize. We survived. That's what matters." He glanced at me. "I prepared the penthouse for you. Made sure everything was perfect."
"I don't care about perfect. I just care about you."
When we finally pulled into the parking garage of our building, relief flooded through me. Home. Really home.
We took the elevator up to the penthouse in silence, both vibrating with tension. The doors opened directly into our space and I stepped inside.
Everything was familiar. The windows overlooking the city. The furniture we'd picked out together. The kitchen where we'd cooked breakfast. Home.
"I can't believe you're really here," Valentino said from behind me. "In our home. Not across a table."
I turned to face him. "Come here."
He crossed to me and I pulled him close, just holding him. Breathing him in. Feeling his heartbeat against my chest. Real. Solid. Mine.
"I missed you," I said into his hair. "Every fucking day. Every moment. I missed you so much."
"I missed you too. So much." He pulled back to look at me. "I love you."
"I love you too." I cupped his face. "And right now, I need to take you to bed and remind us both exactly what we survived for."
Heat flared in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I kissed him hard. "A year, Valentino. A year of wanting you. I'm going to make up for every single day."
We barely made it to the bedroom.
I was kissing him, walking him backward, desperate to get my hands on him properly. He was pulling at my clothes—the same clothes I'd worn into prison twelve months ago, everything else lost to time.
"Off," he demanded, tugging at my shirt. "Get these off."
I pulled the shirt over my head. He immediately ran his hands over my chest, my shoulders, mapping muscle and skin like he was relearning me.
"You're thinner," he said. "Prison food?"
"Didn't have much appetite without you." I pulled his shirt off too, needing skin. "God, look at you. You're so fucking beautiful."
We stumbled to the bed, shedding the rest of our clothes in a desperate tangle. When we were finally both naked, I pressed him down into the mattress and just looked.
A year. A year since I'd seen him like this. Since I'd touched him. Since I'd made him mine.
"Luca." His voice was rough with need. "Please."
"I know. I know." I settled between his legs, running my hands up his thighs. "But I want to take my time. Savor this. Savor you."
"I need—" He broke off when I kissed his inner thigh. "Fuck."
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Just you. However you want me."
However I wanted him. God, the possibilities.
I kissed up his thigh, deliberately avoiding where he wanted me most. Mapped his hip, his stomach, his ribs. Every inch of skin I'd dreamed about for twelve months. He was writhing beneath me, desperate, making the most incredible sounds.
"Please," he begged. "Luca, please—"
I finally gave him what he wanted, taking him in my mouth, and he cried out. His hands fisted in my hair, hips trying to thrust up. I held him down, controlled the pace, relearned the taste and feel of him.
"God, yes, just like that—" His words dissolved into incoherent sounds as I worked him closer and closer to the edge.
When he came, it was with my name on his lips, body arching off the bed. I swallowed everything he gave me, then kissed my way back up his body.
He was panting, flushed, gorgeous. "Jesus."
"That was the appetizer." I kissed him deeply, letting him taste himself. "I'm nowhere near done with you."
"Good. Because I'm nowhere near done with you either."
He pushed at my shoulders and I let him roll us over. Suddenly he was straddling me, looking down with those intense eyes.
"My turn," he said.
And then he set about taking me apart the same way I'd taken him apart. His mouth on my neck, my chest, working lower. His hands everywhere. When he finally took me in his mouth, I thought I might die from it.
"Fuck, Valentino—" My hands tangled in his hair. "That's perfect. You're perfect."
He hummed around me and the vibration sent sparks up my spine. I was already close—twelve months of nothing but my hand and memories—but I didn't want this to end yet.
"Stop," I gasped. "Stop, I'm too close."
He pulled off with an obscene sound. "Isn't that the point?"
"Not yet. I want—" I pulled him up, kissed him hard. "I want to be inside you. Need to feel you. Need to remember what this is like."
"Yes. God, yes." He reached for the bedside drawer, pulled out supplies. "Please. I need you inside me."
We took our time preparing him. My fingers inside him, stretching him open, making sure he was ready. He was shaking with need by the time I finally pressed inside.
"Fuck." The word punched out of me. "You feel—so fucking good—"
"Move," he demanded. "Please move."
I started slow, savoring every moment. The tight heat of him. The way he clenched around me. The sounds he was making. Perfect. Everything was perfect.
"Harder," he said. "Luca, harder, I need—"
I gave him what he needed. Picked up the pace, angled my thrusts to hit that spot that made him see stars. He was clinging to me, nails digging into my back, meeting me thrust for thrust.
"I love you," I said against his neck. "I love you so fucking much. Missed you so fucking much."
"Love you too—fuck, right there—love you so much—"
We moved together, desperate and emotional and perfect. When he came again, clenching around me, it triggered my own orgasm. I buried myself deep and let go, his name on my lips.
We collapsed together, breathing hard, clinging to each other.
"I'm not done," I said after a moment. "Give me ten minutes and I'm going again."
He laughed, breathless. "Ten minutes? You're not twenty anymore."
"I don't care. I've got a year to make up for."
And I did. We made love twice more that night—once slow and tender, once desperate and fast. By the time we finally fell asleep, we were both exhausted and sated and complete.
I held him close, feeling his heartbeat slow, his breathing even out. Home. Finally home. Finally together.
"I love you," I whispered into the darkness.
"I love you too," he murmured, half-asleep. "Welcome home."
Home. With him. Where I belonged.
We'd survived everything—coercion, choice, trial, prison, separation. We'd built something real from darkness. And now we had the rest of our lives to build more.
Together.