23. Serena #2
His mouth curves. Then he pulls my shorts down with slow hands and waits for me to lift my hips. Pregnant hips don’t lift with seductive grace. They negotiate. But Rocco helps without making me feel clumsy. He kisses my thigh, my hip, the curve of my stomach where my shirt has ridden up.
I catch his hair in my hand. “Rocco.”
“I’m here.”
And then his mouth is on me. I forget the next sentence. Maybe the whole alphabet.
His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s learning me again. His hands hold my thighs open but not pinned. I can move. I can close. I can tell him no.
I don’t tell him no. I say his name. Again. Then again, less nicely. He makes a sound against me that’s almost a groan, and the vibration goes straight through my body.
I arch, one hand in his hair, one hand on my stomach. “Yes,” I whisper.
He slips one hand under my thigh and changes the angle. His mouth gets firmer, his tongue steady, and I grip his hair harder. “There,” I gasp.
He stays there. Of course he stays there.
Pleasure rises fast. Too fast. Maybe because Rocco kneeling for me like this feels like a direct hit to every place I’ve tried to protect.
I come with a broken sound, my thighs shaking around his shoulders, my hand clamped over my mouth because Lucia’s flat has thin walls and I have some dignity left.
Rocco doesn’t stop until I pull his hair. Then he lifts his head. His mouth is wet. His eyes aren’t careful anymore. They’re hungry.
I need him not careful for a minute.
I tug his hair again. “Up.”
He rises carefully, wincing when his side pulls. “Sore?”
His mouth brushes mine. “Very.”
“Then say if it hurts too much.”
“I will.”
I kiss him. I taste myself on his mouth and it should embarrass me, probably. It doesn’t. It makes me wild.
I pull at his belt.
He catches my wrist. “Serena.”
“I want you.”
“I need a condom.”
“Then get one.”
He does.
I hold out my hand. He comes back to me. Not smiling now. Focused.
I stand from the bed because I want to. Because I’m tired of being acted around like a delicate object. My body is heavy and swollen and tired, yes, but it’s also mine.
Rocco reaches out, then stops himself. “Can I help?”
“You may hover within one inch.”
His mouth twitches. “Very generous.”
He hovers. I make it upright without incident, which feels like an Olympic event no one appreciates enough.
Then I take his hand and walk toward Lucia’s kitchen.
Rocco stops dead. “Serena.”
I look over my shoulder. “What?”
“Kitchen?”
My cheeks heat, but I keep my chin up. “Yes.”
His eyes move to the closed bedroom door. “Lucia will?—”
“Lucia’s downstairs harassing vegetables.”
“The guards.”
“Are outside.”
“Matteo.”
That one lands. Not because I forgot him. Because I didn’t. I’m choosing anyway.
“Downstairs,” I say.
Rocco’s face changes. Something raw moves there. Not triumph. It’s more like pain mixed with want. Like he knows exactly what this costs and doesn’t know if he’s allowed to receive it.
“I want you here,” I say.
His throat moves. “Okay.”
We go into the kitchen.
Lucia’s kitchen is small, clean, and absolutely not designed for this. There are mugs on the counter. A bowl of apples. A yellow baby sock still near the sink like a tiny witness.
I turn it around so it faces away.
Rocco watches me. “Did you just protect the sock’s innocence?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That makes me laugh. Then I stop laughing because he comes up behind me. Not touching yet. Just there. Warm. Big. Still.
I place my hands on the edge of the counter. My heart pounds.
“I want the husband I remember,” I say.
Rocco goes very quiet. “Serena.”
“Not the one who left me. Not the one who thought control was care. The one who wanted me like breathing and made me feel like the only woman in the room.”
His forehead lowers to the back of my head. He doesn’t touch anywhere else. “I still want you like that.”
“Then show me.”
His breath leaves him. “Hard?”
“Careful of the baby,” I say.
“Always.”
“Careful of me. But not soft.”
His hand closes on my hip. Finally. Firm. Sure. I feel it everywhere.
“Say stop and I stop.”
“I know.”
The words come out before I think. I know. Do I? Some part of me does now.
Rocco hears it. I see it hit him. His face changes like I’ve given him something too precious to hold.
Then he kisses me. Hard. Thank God. His mouth takes mine like he’s been starving all day.
I kiss him back. Not gently. Not forgivingly. Just with everything my body wants and everything my heart is still too scared to name.
He lifts me carefully onto the edge of the counter. Not high. Just enough.
I gasp because the surface is cold under my thighs. He immediately freezes. “Cold?”
“Yes.”
“Want down?”
I wrap my legs around him. “No.”
Then his hands are on me. Not everywhere at once. One hand braced at my lower back, one sliding under my shirt to cup my breast, thumb careful over the sensitive nipple. I moan into his mouth.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.”
He does it again. I bite his lower lip. He makes a sound that’s pure Rocco. Deep. Rough. Mine.
I reach between us and shove at his trousers. “Condom.”
He laughs once. Breathless. “Bossy.”
“Hopeful.”
His eyes flare. He gets the condom on with one hand and a focus that would be funny if I were less desperate.
Then he helps me turn.
This part isn’t graceful. At all. There’s a stomach. There’s a counter. There are hips that don’t move the way they used to. Rocco adjusts with me, not against me, one hand under my belly for support while I find a position that works.
“Pillow,” he says suddenly, and disappears for ten seconds. He comes back with one of Lucia’s sofa pillows. Aggressively floral.
“That pillow looks like a grandmother’s revenge.”
“Serena.”
“Fine.”
He places it on the counter edge to soften the pressure where I brace forward. Of course it helps.
“My silence is terrified of Lucia seeing this pillow later,” he says.
I laugh. Then his hand slides between my thighs and the laugh breaks apart.
He checks that I’m ready. I am. Very.
“Please,” I whisper.
He kisses the back of my neck. “I’ve got you.”
My body stiffens for half a second. Old words. He catches it. Immediately.
“No,” he says, voice rough. “You’ve got you. I’m with you.”
My eyes burn. Damn him. “Rocco.”
“I’m here.”
Then he pushes into me. Slow first. Careful. He gives me every inch like a question. I answer by pushing back.
His grip flexes on my hip. “Serena.”
“I said not soft.”
His breath catches. “I remember.”
Then he moves. Not hard enough to scare me. Hard enough to make me feel him after all the fear, to make the counter creak and my fingers curl around the edge. His body covers mine from behind, one arm braced beside my hand, the other supporting my stomach, holding me close without trapping me.
Careful. Not soft. Exactly what I asked for.
I close my eyes. For a minute, there’s no hospital bracelet. No Rafe. No fake tape. No lonely bedroom where I begged my husband to know me.
There’s Rocco behind me, inside me, breathing my name into the back of my neck like it’s the only word he has left.
“Yes,” I gasp.
He gives me more. Still controlled. Still listening. But rougher now. Possessive in the way I like, not the way that takes. His hand slides down between my legs and finds the spot his mouth had already ruined.
My knees shake. “Rocco.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t stop.”
His whole body goes tense. Not pleasure. Pain. Because there are words under those words for us. Don’t stop. Don’t leave. Don’t choose the world outside the door over me again.
I didn’t mean to say all of that. My body said it anyway.
He kisses my shoulder. “I’m here.”
His phone rings.
Of course it does. The sound cuts through the kitchen like a blade. Once. Twice.
My body freezes. So does his.
He’s still inside me. Hard. Breathing rough against my neck.
The phone rings again from the counter beside the apples.
Everything in me goes cold. Not because of danger first. Because of memory. Phones. Calls. Rocco turning away. Rocco answering for everyone except me.
He feels me change. He stops completely. Not a slow fade. Not one more thrust. Stops.
His hand leaves between my legs and comes to my hip, steadying me. “Serena,” he says.
The phone rings. “Answer it,” I whisper.
His forehead presses to my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I turn my face enough to see him. His eyes are on mine. Not the phone. Me.
“I’m stopping,” he says. “Because that could be danger. Not because I’m leaving you.”
My chest cracks. One clean line. “Okay.”
“I’ll answer on speaker. I’ll stay where you can see me unless you want me out of you first.”
The bluntness of it almost makes me cry. Also makes me hotter.
“Stay,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “Okay.”
He reaches for the phone with one hand while keeping the other on my hip. Anchored.
The screen says LEWIS. He answers on speaker. “Talk.”
Lewis’s voice snaps into the room. “Movement at the east end. White van rolled twice past the building. Miriam has eyes. Matteo’s with her.”
Rocco’s body changes behind me. Danger waking. But he doesn’t move away. “Plate?”
“Covered. Two visible. Maybe one in back.”
I hold the counter. I’m naked from the waist down, my husband still inside me, and there may be men outside coming for me and my baby.
“Distance?” Rocco asks.
“One block. Slowing.”
Rocco’s hand tightens on my hip. Not enough to hurt. Enough that I feel him decide not to run.
“Serena’s with me,” he says. “Door’s locked. We’re in the kitchen.”
There is a half-beat of silence.
“Understood,” Lewis says, extremely professionally. “Miriam wants permission to move Enzo to rear stairs.”
Rocco looks at me. Actually looks. Waiting. He’s asking me. In the middle of this. Not deploying men around me like furniture. Asking.
“Enzo would be outside the flat, not inside,” he says.
I nod, then remember. “Yes.”
Rocco says, “Approved. Outside only.”
“Copy,” Lewis says.
There is more noise on the line. Then Matteo. “Van stopped. Corner shop. Driver got out. Carrying flowers.”