Chapter 6 – Dario
I can’t sleep.
My knuckles sting, split open from the fight earlier, but that’s not what keeps me up.
It’s her. Viviana. Lying across a cot I’ve never shared with anyone.
Her scent sticks to my shirt—sharp, warm, like salt and smoke mixed with something I can’t name. I still feel her wrist under my fingers, the moment I let go and she didn’t run.
She should’ve.
Bare feet hit the floor, soft but sure. I turn. Neon buzzes outside, slicing through the boarded windows, casting her in streaks of red and gold. She’s wearing my shirt—loose, half-buttoned, slipping off one shoulder.
A bruise stains her collarbone, dark and fresh from the mess we crawled out of. Her eyes find mine, steady, unflinching.
“I can’t sleep,” she says, voice rough, low.
“Didn’t expect you to,” I say.
She drifts to the table, fingers grazing the crumpled manifest I’d left there. She doesn’t look at it. Just turns to me. “You were right. I didn’t break.”
“No. You didn’t.”
She steps closer. My body tenses, every nerve firing. I’ve taken down men twice my size with less effort than it takes to stay still right now.
Her gaze holds mine, and she’s near enough I can smell her again—sweat, blood, that fierce edge cutting through it all.
“Why haven’t you touched me?” she asks.
I straighten, the chair creaking under me. “You’ve been through hell.”
“I’m still breathing.”
“That doesn’t mean I—”
“I didn’t ask what you think you should do,” she cuts in, sharp. “I asked why you haven’t.”
I stand. She doesn’t step back. Her chest rises and falls, quick but controlled, and her fingers twitch at her sides like she’s fighting to keep them still. I don’t touch her yet.
I watch her, reading the tight line of her shoulders, the heat in her cheeks, the way her hands curl in like she’s holding herself back from something she wants.
“Say stop,” I tell her, voice thick.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers.
I move. My hand fists in her hair, pulling her to me, and my mouth finds hers.
It’s not soft. Not planned. It’s need—raw, sharp, spilling out.
She gasps, the sound hitting me hard, and I feel it everywhere. My other hand slides under the shirt—my shirt—and grips her hip, fingers pressing into soft skin.
She leans into me, her body molding against mine, and my head spins.
Her tongue brushes mine, warm and bold, and I groan into her mouth. She tastes like defiance, like every line I’ve crossed and then some.
Her hands claw at my shirt, bunching the fabric, pulling me tighter until there’s no gap left. We stumble back, my legs hitting the chair, and she shoves me down before I can think.
She straddles me quickly. Her hair falls forward, brushing my face, and I can barely pull air in.
“Viviana,” I say, her name rough against her mouth.
She doesn’t answer. Just presses her lips to my throat, teeth scraping skin, and whatever I meant to say vanishes.
My hands find the hem of her shirt, and I don’t wait—I yank it up and off, tossing it aside. Her skin’s hot under my palms, and I run my fingers down her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her spine.
She shivers when I brush just under her shoulder blade, a soft sound catching in her throat.
I pull back enough to see her. Her breasts rise with every breath, nipples tight and pink against pale skin.
Her stomach dips in, leading down to the shorts she’s still got on—thin, barely there. She shifts, grinding against me, and I feel my dick twitch, already half-hard in my jeans.
Her hands drop to my shirt, tugging it up. I help her, peeling it off and throwing it somewhere behind me.
She presses herself closer, bare chest brushing mine, and I feel her nipples drag across my skin. My hands settle on her thighs, gripping them as I lift her slightly, adjusting her across my lap.
She leans in, mouth finding my collarbone, sucking lightly, and I let out a low sound, my fingers digging in harder.
I slide a hand up her thigh, under the edge of her shorts, and find no underwear—just warm, bare skin. She shifts, giving me room, and I tug the shorts down.
She kicks them off, and now it’s just her—naked, sprawled across me, legs parted over mine. I take her in, the flush spreading down her chest, the dark hair between her thighs already wet. My mouth goes dry, but I don’t rush.
She reaches for my jeans, fingers working the button open, then the zipper.
I lift my hips, letting her shove them down, and my cock springs free, hard and aching. Her hand wraps around it, slow at first, stroking from base to tip. I hiss, head tipping back as she tightens her grip, thumb brushing over the head.
My hips jerk up, and she keeps going, pumping me steady, watching my face like she’s memorizing every sound I make.
I grab her wrist, pulling her hand off, and lift us, walking toward the cot. When I drop her, she lands on her back on the cot, legs still tangled with mine, and I settle between her thighs.
Her pussy’s right there, glistening, and I don’t waste time. I spread her wider, one hand pinning her thigh, and drag my fingers along her slit. She moans, hips tilting up, and I press harder, parting her folds.
She’s soaked, dripping, and I slide two fingers inside, feeling her clench around me.
“Dario,” she gasps, hands grabbing my shoulders, nails biting in.
I pump my fingers, slow and deep, curling them to hit that spot that makes her arch off the cushion.
Her legs tremble, thighs squeezing my hand, and I add my thumb, circling her clit. She’s loud now, moans breaking into sharp cries, and I feel her tighten, so close already.
But I want more. I pull my fingers out, ignoring her frustrated groan, and shift down. My mouth replaces my hand, tongue licking a long, flat stripe up her pussy.
She bucks hard, a curse ripping out of her, and I grip her hips, holding her still.
I taste her, raw and tangy, and suck her clit between my lips. She shouts, hands fisting in my hair, pulling, but I don’t let up. I flick my tongue, fast and firm, then slow, dragging it out. Her thighs shake, clamping around my head, and I push deeper, licking inside her, feeling her pulse against my mouth.
She’s thrashing now, close to breaking, and I keep going until she’s begging.
“Fuck, Dario—please,” she pants, voice wrecked.
I pull back, climbing up her body, and settle between her legs again.
My cock brushes her entrance, slick and hot, and I don’t wait. I push in, slow, feeling her stretch around me.
She’s tight, gripping me like a vise, and I groan as I sink deeper, inch by inch, until I’m fully inside. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me closer.
I pull out halfway, then thrust back in, harder.
She cries out, hands scrabbling at my back, and I set a rhythm—deep, steady, every stroke dragging a sound from her. The cot rocks beneath us, creaking loud, but it holds.
I lean down, mouth on her neck, sucking a mark into her skin as I fuck her. Her tits bounce with every thrust, brushing my chest, and I shift, hitting deeper.
She gasps, nails raking down my spine, and I feel her pussy clench, squeezing my cock tight.
“More,” she demands, voice raw, and I give it to her. I thrust harder, faster, skin slapping skin, the sound echoing in the room.
Her moans turn to screams, and I feel her shatter—her pussy pulsing around me, wet and hot, as she comes. I don’t stop, fucking her through it, drawing it out until she’s shaking, breathless.
She’s not done. Her hands grab my ass, urging me on, and I flip her.
She lands on her knees, chest pressed to the cot, and I’m behind her in a second. I spread her wide, hands on her hips, and thrust back in.
She groans, pushing back against me, meeting every stroke. I grip her harder, pounding into her, and she takes it, rocking with me, her ass slapping against my thighs.
I reach around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast. She shouts again, another orgasm ripping through her, and I feel her drip down my cock, soaking us both.
It’s too much. I thrust deep, once, twice, and come hard, spilling inside her with a guttural sound. My vision blurs, arms trembling as I hold myself up, and I collapse onto her back, both of us slick with sweat.
Her legs give out, and we sink into the cushion, tangled together. She’s still shaking, breath ragged, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers trace my arm, lazy now, and I feel her heartbeat against my chest, wild but slowing.
I lift my head, meeting her eyes. They’re soft, unguarded, and something knots in my gut.
We stay there, bare skin sticking to bare skin, the city humming outside. Rain hits the windows, a steady drone, but it’s distant. Her cheek rests on my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. My hand finds that spot under her shoulder blade, tracing it absently.
“You okay?” I ask, voice scraped raw.
She nods, a small shift. “Yeah.”
I expect her to pull back. To rethink this. She doesn’t. Just lies there, alive and real beneath me, and my head’s quiet. No blood. No ghosts. Just her.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in years, I don’t dream about Massimo bleeding in my arms.
I don’t dream at all.