20. Serena #3
Pleasure rolls through me until my arms shake. Until I have to stop moving and just breathe.
Rocco’s still hard inside me, breathing tight.
“You didn’t,” I whisper.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
His smile is strained. “Deeply.”
I laugh against his mouth. Then I wince because my hips are tired.
Immediately his hands go still. “Side,” he says. Not an order. A suggestion wrapped in concern.
I nod. There’s no graceful way to roll off a man while pregnant, emotional, and still connected. We manage it with only one elbow to his ribs, which I consider heroic.
We shift onto our sides, him behind me because my body likes that now and my belly has opinions. He slides back into me slowly, one hand under my hip to keep the angle gentle.
It feels different this way. Less frantic. His arm comes around me and his hand spreads over my stomach. His mouth finds my shoulder, the small pale mark he kissed when I told him I didn’t trust him.
“Still with me?” he whispers.
“Yes. You can move.”
His breath shakes. Then he does. Slow. Deep. Careful of his injury, careful of me, careful of everything except the way his mouth keeps saying my name against my skin.
Serena. Serena. Serena. Like he’s putting it back where everyone tried to dirty it.
I reach back and grip his hip. “Harder.”
He stills. “Are you sure?”
“A little harder, not wild animal.”
His laugh is a rough breath against my shoulder. “Understood.”
He gives me what I ask for. Not too much. Enough.
The bed knocks once against the wall and we both freeze.
“The guards,” I whisper.
“They’ll live.”
I shouldn’t laugh during sex. I do. He kisses the back of my neck and keeps moving, and the laugh turns into a moan so quickly I embarrass myself.
The second orgasm is slower. It builds from the rhythm, from his hand on my stomach, from the way he doesn’t let the possessiveness turn into punishment. He holds me, but he doesn’t trap me.
When I come again, it’s quieter. Deeper. It leaves me shaking against him.
Only then does he let go. His hips press close, his forehead drops to my shoulder, and he comes with a broken sound that makes my whole body ache.
Not pain. Something worse. Feeling.
He stays inside me for a minute after. Not moving. Just breathing. His hand is still on the baby.
“Okay?” he asks against my shoulder.
I choose the easiest true thing. “I’m okay.”
His arm tightens once. Then loosens.
He eases away to take care of the condom, returns with a warm damp cloth from the tiny bathroom, and cleans me with such careful attention that I almost cry again.
I do not. Character growth. Or dehydration. Hard to say.
He pulls my shirt back over me, then pulls on his trousers because Lucia has a front door and a temper, and comes back to bed bare-chested and careful around his bandage.
I like looking at him. Sue me.
He lies beside me on top of the blanket, not under it. Giving me space. Letting me decide.
I roll my eyes and tug his arm over me. “Don’t hover.”
His breath catches. Then his arm comes around me. Warm. Solid.
Temporary, I remind myself. Not because I want it to be. Because I have to know I can survive if it is.
We lie there quietly for a while. His thumb moves once over my stomach, then stops like he’s afraid of doing too much.
“You can,” I say.
His thumb moves again. Small circles.
“Rosa called me,” I say. “She told me not to reward you.”
His chest moves behind me. Almost a laugh. “Of course she did.”
“She said Castellano men turn one correct act into a debt.”
“She’s right.”
I twist enough to look back at him. “Are you?”
“Trying not to be,” he says.
I believe that. Not all the way. But enough that it scares me.
“This still isn’t forgiveness,” I say.
His face doesn’t fall. It doesn’t harden either. “I know.”
“Say something else.”
He thinks about it. Actually thinks.
“I want to earn the right to stay,” he says. “Not the right to touch you. You gave me that tonight. I know the difference.”
That hits so hard I have to look away. Damn him. Damn him for being late and still learning.
“Serena,” he says. “I have something for you.”
My whole body stiffens. So much for soft.
Rocco feels it immediately and lifts his arm. “Not jewelry.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your spine did.”
I glare over my shoulder. “My spine’s very expressive.”
He gets up slowly and crosses to his jacket on the chair. He takes a cream envelope from the inside pocket. Thick paper. Of course. Rich people can’t even ruin lives with normal stationery.
He comes back to the bed but doesn’t sit. He stands beside it, holding the envelope like it might bite me.
“If this is money, I’ll throw it at your head,” I say.
“It isn’t money.”
“If it’s Claudia’s head, I’m calling Lucia.”
“It’s not Claudia’s head.”
“Shame.”
He almost smiles. Then the seriousness returns. He holds the envelope out. I don’t take it yet.
My body knows gifts from him. Diamonds after missed dinners. Trips after cold weeks. A bracelet after Claudia took my seat at a charity board meeting and Rocco told me I was being sensitive. Expensive apologies that never admitted the wound.
Rocco lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, leaving space between us.
“This is not payment,” he says.
Something in me goes still.
He places the envelope on the blanket between us. Not in my hand. Not forcing me to accept it. Just there. Waiting.
“It’s power.”