Chapter 31 - Marisol
He drives, and I sit beside him. The silence isn’t empty.
It’s full. Dense with everything that happened and everything that’s coming.
The adrenaline is already transforming in my body, violence becoming something else, something that makes me press my thighs together.
I watch his hands on the wheel. The same hands that delivered justice this morning, that will deliver something else entirely when we get home.
I reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers close around mine, still trembling slightly, the adrenaline working its way out. The small tremor reminds me he's human. I trace my thumb across his knuckles, feeling the slight swelling from impact.
We drive through Miami. The city gleaming, oblivious. Beautiful.
We drive in silence for a while. Not uncomfortable—just full. Processing.
I watch him in profile. The set of his jaw. The slight tension in his shoulders that means he's running tactical assessments even now, checking mirrors, noting exit routes. But there's something else too. A looseness I've never seen. Like killing Cesar finally untied a knot inside him.
"You okay?" I ask.
He considers the question. Really considers it, which is more than most people do.
"I’m okay."
"He was going to kill me," I say.
"Yes."
"So don't try to feel guilty. Feel whatever you actually feel."
His hand finds mine across the console. Squeezes.
"What I feel," he says, voice dropping, "is that you're alive. And I want to spend the next several hours proving it."
"When we get there," he says suddenly, his voice rough with everything he's holding back, "I'm going to fuck you until you forget everything but my name. Until the only marks on your body are mine."
The promise sends heat straight through me, pooling between my legs.
I press my thighs together, already aching, already wet.
The violence in the warehouse, the adrenaline, his proximity.
It's all transforming into desperate need.
I want his hands on me, want him to work out every bit of leftover darkness on my body until we both forget everything but each other.
"Drive faster," I tell him.
His grip tightens on the wheel. The speedometer climbs.
Through the windshield, I watch the water.
Biscayne Bay sparkling in the afternoon sun.
But all I can think about is what's coming.
How he'll strip me bare the second that door closes.
How he'll pin me against the wall, or bend me over the couch, or carry me to bed and make me scream his name until the neighbors complain.
My pussy clenches at the thought, and I shift in my seat, the friction of my dress against my skin almost unbearable. Every nerve is live, electric, waiting for his touch.
"I need you," I whisper, and his jaw tightens.
"Soon," he promises, and the word sounds like a vow. Like a threat. Like everything I want it to be.
The city streams past, but all I see is him. All I feel is this building heat, this promise of what's coming.
Drive faster, I think again, but don't say it. He knows. His foot is already pressing harder on the accelerator, racing toward home, toward the moment when this terrible day transforms into something else entirely.
The car pulls into the underground garage, and Nico kills the engine. For a moment, we just sit there, the silence thick with anticipation. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and when he turns to me, his eyes are dark with promise.
"Upstairs," he says, the single word carrying everything we both need.
We exit the car like people trying not to run. Professional. Controlled. But the electricity between us makes the air crackle as we cross to the elevator. His hand finds the small of my back, possessive, guiding, a brand through the thin fabric of my dress.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime. We step inside, and the doors close behind us, sealing us in this small space together. His scent surrounds me – soap and gun oil and the lingering metallic hint of what he did this morning. I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs.
The second we're alone, he has me against the wall. His body presses into mine, hard and unyielding. His mouth captures mine in a kiss that's more claim than affection, all teeth and tongue and desperation. I moan into his mouth, my hands already working at his belt, needing to feel him.
"Wait," he growls against my lips. "Not yet."
The elevator climbs. Ten floors. Twenty. Each ding marking another level of restraint slipping away. By the time we reach the penthouse, his hand is under my dress, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear, teasing but not giving me what I need.
The doors open directly into our foyer. We stumble in, holding hands like teenagers.
I reach up. Touch his jaw. The stubble is rough under my fingertips. He leans into my hand, and I feel his control starting to crack.
"Take me to bed, Nico. I need you to fuck me properly. No more running. Not from each other."
His eyes darken at my blunt words. He takes my hand, the same hand that ended Cesar hours ago, and leads me inside.
Our bedroom. The bed we've shared before, sheets that smell like sex and us. Gun oil and vanilla, violence and desperate fucking.
He doesn't rush. That's what makes my pussy clench with anticipation. Knowing he's going to take his time destroying me. Tomorrow there will be fallout from Cesar's death, power struggles, consequences. But tonight…
He stands in front of me, close, his hands finding my waist through the cotton dress. The fabric is so thin I can feel every callus on his palms. He grips me firmly, like I might disappear if he doesn't hold tight enough.
He looks at me. Really looks. His gaze burning as it travels from my face down to where a tear almost exposes my pussy. I'm already so wet I can feel it on my inner thighs.
His hand comes up. He traces the wounds from the cliff. First the long scrape on my arm. His thumb follows it, then his mouth, his tongue laving the mark. Then the bruise on my collarbone. He sucks on it, making it darker, claiming me over the ocean's marks.
He lifts the dress hem and slides down my panties, exposing my pussy to his hungry gaze. "Fuck, you're already dripping for me."
"I've been wet since I watched you kill Cesar," I admit, spreading my legs slightly.
His finger slides through my folds, gathering my wetness, and I moan at the contact. He brings his finger to his mouth, tasting me, and his eyes go black.
"You jumped off that cliff," he says, voice rough.
"I did."
"You swam."
"I did."
"To me."
His forehead drops to mine. Our breath mixing. I taste cinnamon on his exhale. His hands grip my waist harder, thumbs pressing into the bruises he left before.
"I stood outside your door last night. My hand on the doorknob. My cock so hard it hurt."
I close my eyes, imagining him on the other side, touching himself.
"I know," I whisper. "I was touching myself too. Thinking about you. Hating you, though, because you were an asshole"
He groans, and I feel his cock twitch against my stomach through his pants.
"I should have opened it. Should have fucked you properly instead of making us both suffer."
"You're here now. Show me what you wanted to do last night."
I pull the dress over my head. I'm completely naked now, my nipples hard, my pussy dripping. He looks at me like he wants to devour every inch.
"Fuck, Marisol. You're perfect. Every bruise, every scrape. Mine."
I reach for his shirt, practically tearing it off him. My nails rake down his chest, leaving red marks over his scars and ink. His cock strains against his pants, the outline making my mouth water.
His hands are actually shaking as he touches me. This man who hours ago ended Cesar without flinching is trembling as his hands cup my breasts.
"You're nervous," I observe, pinching his nipple hard enough to make him hiss.
"I'm fucking terrified," he admits. "Terrified I'll hurt you. Terrified I won't be enough."
I reach down, gripping his cock through his pants. He's rock hard, and I can feel him pulse in my hand.
"You could never hurt me in ways I don't want. And you're more than enough. Now stop thinking and fuck me like you mean it."
He snaps.
His mouth crashes into mine, all tongue and teeth and desperation. I taste violence and need as he walks me backward to the bed, his hands everywhere. Squeezing my ass, pinching my nipples, sliding between my legs to find me soaked.
He pushes me onto the bed, and I bounce slightly, spreading my legs wide so he can see everything. My pussy is dripping, clenching on nothing, desperate to be filled.
"Look at you," he growls, finally freeing his cock. It springs out, thick and hard, precum already beading at the tip. "Spread yourself for me. Show me that pretty pussy."
I reach down, using both hands to spread my pussy lips, exposing my swollen clit and dripping entrance. "This is yours, Nico. All yours."
He drops to his knees, gripping my thighs hard enough to leave marks. His mouth is on me instantly, no teasing, just his tongue fucking into me while his nose presses against my clit. I cry out, my back arching off the bed.
"Fuck, Nico! Your mouth!"
He pulls back just enough to speak against my pussy. "I missed this taste. Missed how you flood my mouth when you come."
He slides three fingers inside me, curling them to hit that spot while his tongue attacks my clit. The dual sensation has me calling out for God, my hands fisting in his hair, grinding against his face.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force my eyes open, looking down at him between my thighs. His eyes are black with lust, watching me fall apart. The eye contact while he devours me is almost too intense.
"I'm going to come," I gasp. "Nico, I'm…"
"Come on my tongue. Let me taste it."