Chapter 5 – Tiziano
I lock the bar door behind me.
The bolt slides into place. It’s not loud, but it lands with weight. Final.
Vespera doesn’t look up. She’s behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag that doesn’t look like it’s doing much. Her hand moves slowly, like the act matters more than the result. Like she’s scrubbing off something that’s not actually there.
She doesn’t say anything.
I watch her shoulders. There’s tension in the way she moves—tight, deliberate.
“Stop running,” I say. My voice comes out rough, sharper than I mean.
She sets the rag down, still not looking at me. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she says.
“I’m not.”
She finally meets my eyes. There’s no tremor in her gaze, but I catch the breath she inhales before locking it in place.
“Then give me space,” she says.
“Make me,” I say.
Neither of us moves. The distance between us isn’t big, but it might as well be ten feet with everything sitting between us.
She holds my stare. Her face is stern. I can see it in her expression—frustration, something biting at the edge. She looks like she could hit me. Or walk out. Or maybe grab me by the collar. I can’t tell.
“I don’t want you here,” she says.
“I’m not leaving.”
“You got what you wanted,” she snaps.
“I said yes. To the books. The deal. The risk. Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Why not?”
“Because you’re not being honest.”
She steps around the bar, her boots scraping across the floor as she stops a few feet from me.
“Then say what you think I’m hiding.”
“You’re acting like this didn’t shake you.”
She crosses her arms. “It’s just business. You treated it that way. I followed your lead.”
“No. You used business to avoid talking about everything else.”
She draws in a slow breath through her nose but keeps her eyes on mine.
“I’m tired,” she says. “You show up, tell me what I feel, like you’ve been part of my life for longer than you have.”
“You shoved a knife into a man two hours ago and didn’t blink. And now you want me to believe you feel nothing?”
“I don’t owe you that,” she says.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I reply. “But I’m still standing here.”
She doesn’t back off.
Neither do I.
She glances at the bar, then back at me. “You know how hard I worked to keep this place clean?”
“I know what it takes to keep it that way,” I say.
Her expression changes yet again. She turns like the conversation’s done, but doesn’t go far. Just grabs the rag again and starts wiping the same section she left earlier.
I walk up to the counter and rest my hands on it. I don’t speak.
She keeps wiping.
Eventually, she stops.
“You think you can fix this?” she asks, still facing down.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To see how far you’ll let me in.”
She looks at me.
“You’re pushing too hard.”
“And you’re still here.”
She steps out from behind the counter.
I refuse to step back.
We’re close now. I can smell the bar on her—bourbon, cleaning solution, sweat. There’s thunder outside, rolling through the walls.
She stops right in front of me.
Her voice lowers. “I don’t like feeling boxed in.”
“You’re not boxed in,” I say. “You just haven’t stepped out.”
She exhales. Then, she asks, “So what now?”
I pause. “You tell me.”
I move first.
She stays. Her eyes, dark and defiant, hold mine like a challenge.
My hands hit the bar, caging her in. Her breath catches—sharp, barely audible. I feel the heat of her body, close enough to burn.
She smells of smoke and steel, sweat clinging to her skin. Adrenaline’s sharpness mixes with the faint jasmine buried in her hair.
I open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.
She grabs my collar with both hands and yanks me down. Her knuckles graze my throat, rough and urgent.
Her lips crash into mine. Hard. No softness—just teeth and heat. “Fuck you, Tiziano,” she mutters against my mouth.
I press into her, my chest flattening against hers. Her back slams into the counter, the wood creaking under the force.
Bottles clatter behind her. One topples, shattering on the floor in a spray of glass and whiskey.
My hips pin hers. My dick’s hard, grinding against her pussy through her skirt. She tenses, but doesn’t pull away.
Her legs hook around my thighs, boots digging into my sides. She’s all sharp edges, pulling me closer like she’s daring me to break.
She kisses like she’s fighting me. Tongue lashing, teeth scraping. “Harder, asshole,” she snaps, biting my lip.
Blood stings my mouth. I groan, the sound raw. It’s not pain—it’s hunger.
Her nails claw my shoulder, scraping skin. I hiss, my dick twitching against her.
“Keep up,” she taunts, her voice low and jagged. Her bite draws more blood, and I lean into it.
I lift her onto the bar. Her ass hits the wood with a thud, her legs spreading wider.
Her hands rip at my shirt. Buttons pop, scattering across the floor like shrapnel.
I shove her skirt up, bunching it around her hips. No panties—just her bare pussy, wet and glistening under the dim light.
“Fucking tease,” I growl, my eyes locked on hers. She’s daring me to take what I want.
She smirks, sharp and dangerous. “Then do something about it, bastard.”
I unzip, freeing my dick. It’s throbbing, heavy in my hand. I drag the tip over her clit, slow, teasing her entrance.
She hisses, nails digging into my neck. “Don’t fucking play with me, Tiziano.”
I push in, slow at first, feeling her pussy stretch around me. She’s tight, hot, gripping every inch. “Goddamn,” she breathes, her voice cracking.
I thrust deeper, filling her completely. Her walls pulse, sucking me in like she owns me.
Her forehead drops to my shoulder. Her breath’s hot, ragged against my skin. “Move, you prick,” she demands.
I pull back, then slam in. Hard. The bar shakes under us.
She moans, loud and unfiltered. “Yeah, like that. Don’t stop.”
Her pussy clenches tighter, making my dick throb. I grab her tits through her shirt, feeling her nipples harden under my palms.
I rip her shirt open. Buttons fly, and her tits spill free. Her nipples are dark, stiff, begging for my mouth.
I kiss one, sucking hard, my tongue flicking the peak. She arches, gasping. “Fuck, again.”
I bite her nipple, tugging with my teeth. Her hips buck, grinding her pussy against my dick.
“More,” she pants, yanking my hair. Her other hand claws my back, leaving fire in its wake.
I lick her other nipple, swirling my tongue, then sucking until she’s writhing. My thrusts get harder, deeper, relentless.
“Faster, you bastard,” she orders, her voice breaking. Her heels slam against the bar, the wood groaning under the assault.
A stool crashes to the floor. Another glass shatters somewhere behind us. The chaos matches us—wreckage and need.
I fuck her harder, my dick pounding into her pussy. I slide a hand between us, finding her clit, swollen and slick.
I rub it, rough and fast, circling with my thumb. “Come for me,” I growl, my lips against her ear.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps, but her body betrays her, trembling under my touch. Her moans climb, sharp and desperate. “Fuck, Tiziano, don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”
I pinch her nipple, twisting hard. My dick slams deeper, hitting every nerve inside her.
“You’re mine,” I snarl, rubbing her clit faster. Her pussy’s so tight it’s driving me insane.
“Bullshit,” she spits, but her eyes are wild, her body shaking. She’s close—I feel it.
Her pussy grips me, pulsing hard. I rub her clit in tight, merciless circles, pushing her over the edge.
She screams, “Fuck, yes!” Her orgasm rips through her, her body convulsing, pussy milking my dick.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, breaking skin. Her head falls back, lips parted, chest heaving.
I’m close, balls tight, dick throbbing inside her. “Say it,” I growl, thrusting harder, chasing my own release.
“No,” she chokes, but her eyes are locked on mine, raw and unguarded.
I slam in again. Again. My release hits like a fucking tidal wave, spilling into her.
“Fuck,” I groan, my hands bruising her hips. My dick pulses, emptying everything I’ve got.
She’s trembling, her pussy still clenching around me. I’m shaking, too, breath ragged, body spent.
No words now. Just heat. Just us.
Her grip loosens. Her hands fall, resting on the bar.
Her head drops back. Sweat glistens on her throat, her tits still bare.
I stay inside her a moment, my dick softening but not ready to leave. Then, I pull out, slow, watching her pussy glisten with us.
She shoves my chest, hard. “Get the fuck off me.”
I step back. My lip’s bleeding, the taste sharp. I lick it, savoring her on me.
“Nothing’s changed,” she says, her voice rough, scraped raw. She’s lying, and we both know it.
“Bullshit,” I say, my voice low. The word hangs heavy, cutting through the haze.
She hops off the bar. Her skirt falls, covering her thighs. Her shirt’s ruined, hanging open, nipples still hard.
She doesn’t look at me. She just straightens, her hair a mess, and her face flushed with fire.
“Asshole,” she mutters, turning away. Her boots hit the floor, each step a spark.
She storms toward the back. Her hips sway, trailing chaos like a fucking hurricane.
I stay where I am. My dick’s slick and my body’s aching, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I’m grinning. It’s not soft—it’s feral, matching the wildness she dragged out of me.
She’ll hate herself for this. Hate me more for making her want it.
She’ll crave it again. So will I.
The bar’s a wreck—glass everywhere, whiskey pooling, that stool still on its side. It’s a graveyard for whatever we just did.
I drag a hand through my hair. My shoulder stings where she clawed me, my lip throbbing with her bite.
I don’t care. I want the marks. Want the proof.
She’s gone, but her scent lingers—smoke, sweat, and her. It’s burned into me now, a scar I’ll carry.
This wasn’t a moment. It was a fucking war.
And we’re not done.