Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
STEVIE
I wake up to the unsettling realization that I’m being watched, which should trigger my flight response.
Except it’s Dario, so instead I get a full-body flush and the urge to climb him like a jungle gym.
He’s propped up on his elbow, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes locked on my face like I’m the sunrise and he’s pissed he missed the first five minutes.
“How long have you been awake?”
“A while.”
“Just… staring at me? That’s serial killer territory. Or that’s romantic psycho.” I try to glare, but it’s useless.
“Memorizing you.” He traces a finger down my cheek. Along my jaw. “I have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
My stomach does acrobatics. “That’s a little intense for, like…” I squint at the clock. “Seven-fucking-a.m., Dario.”
He just shrugs, that soft, menacing smile. “I’m an intense man.”
“I’m noticing.”
I want to sass him, but then he leans down and kisses me. Not a morning-after, “Hey, good to see you,” kiss. A “shut up and let me worship you” kind of kiss.
Soft at first, deceptive. Warmth, want, a promise.
Then he slides his hand into my hair, tugs my head back, and suddenly it’s not soft at all. It’s the kind of kiss that makes me open my legs and arch into him, robe forgotten, nerves on fire.
He breaks the kiss just enough to look at me. Full eye contact. “You remember what I promised last night?”
“Which part?” My voice cracks. “You promised a lot.”
He just grins. “I meant all of it.”
And then he’s kissing me again, mouth hot and hungry, mapping every curve of my lips, every shaky breath I let slip.
I try to speed things up, pull him closer, sink my nails into his back, grind against his thigh. He catches both my wrists and pins them above my head, his grip solid, his gaze never breaking from mine.
“Not yet.”
God, that voice. I want to snap, want to brat my way into a faster pace, but his grip, his calm, his absolute focus. It roots me to the spot.
“You keep saying that.”
He presses his mouth to the corner of mine, then my jaw, then the spot below my ear that’s hardwired to my sex drive. “You keep trying to rush. I told you. Today, I’m going to take my time.”
I arch, helpless, half-crazy already. “What if I don’t want you to take your time?”
His mouth finds my throat. “Then you’ll learn patience.”
Oh. Fuck. That’s… That’s new.
Dario holding my wrists, looking at me like I’m something precious he’s going to take apart piece by piece is something else entirely.
There’s heat in his eyes, yes, but more than that, there’s command. He’s not asking for control. He’s taking it. And I want to be good. I want to be ruined.
“Okay,” I whisper, breathless.
His eyes spark. “Yeah?”
I nod, shameless, wild. “Yeah. Take your time.”
His smile goes sharp as broken glass. “Good girl.”
And I shatter, right there, body on fire, cunt throbbing, every muscle in my thighs coiling with want. I’m not literally combusting, but hell, I can taste ash and lightning on my tongue.
He releases my wrists. Sits back. Looks at me like he’s deciding where to start.
“Don’t move your hands,” he says.
I don’t move my hands.
He starts with my collarbone.
Which seems like a weird choice until his mouth is there, tracing the line of bone, and I realize that every nerve ending I have is apparently connected to that one specific spot.
“Dario.”
“Shh.”
He moves lower. The robe falls open and he doesn’t rush to remove it, just traces the edges with his fingers, following the silk across my skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
He parts the robe fully. I fight the urge to cover myself, old instincts, old voices, too much too much too much, and he must see it because he pauses.
“Stay with me,” he says quietly. “Right here. Don’t go anywhere else.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” He presses a kiss over my sternum, right where my heart’s going berserk. “You’re doing so fucking good for me.”
The praise goes off in my chest like a grenade. I didn’t know I needed it until he gave it. Didn’t know how much I needed someone to see me falling apart and call it beautiful instead of broken.
He continues his exploration. Every inch of skin cataloged, kissed, claimed. By the time he reaches my hip bones, I’m shaking.
“Dario, please.”
He pauses, mouth hovering, breath ghosting across my skin. “Please what?”
“Please, I need.”
“Tell me what you need.”
The words won’t form. Everything is sensation and heat and his mouth moving lower, so close to where I want him.
He just waits, steady, a fingertip trailing up my inner thigh, teasing, not giving, making me climb the walls with need.
Then he stops. Pulls back, those dark eyes pinning me to the mattress.
“What.” I gasp. “Why did you stop?”
He just smiles, devil in silk. “Look at me, Stevie.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, and it’s electric, intimate, like he’s looking straight into the part of me that’s always been starved.
“Tell me what you want. All of it. No hiding.”
I swallow, cheeks flaming, but I don’t break eye contact. Not with him. “I want your mouth. On me.”
His brow quirks. “Where, baby?”
My face burns. “You know where.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Dario.”
“Say it, Stevie.”
God, he’s relentless.
“My pussy,” I whisper, the word jagged and new and raw, but I give it to him anyway.
His smile is all dark praise. “Good girl.”
And then his mouth is exactly where I asked for it, and I’m arching off the bed, and he’s holding my hips down, and I’m so close, so close.
He stops.
“Dario.”
“Not yet.”
“I swear to God.”
“You’ll wait.” He kisses my hip bone. The inside of my thigh. Everywhere except where I need him. “You’ll wait because I asked you to. And when I let you come, it’s going to be worth the wait.”
I’m going to die. I’m going to die in this fancy hotel room because Dario Marchetti is going to edge me to death and they’ll find my body surrounded by room service menus.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says.
“I’m thinking about murdering you.”
“That’s fair.” He blows cool air across my heated skin. I whimper. “But you’re still going to wait.”
He drags me to the edge, once, twice, three times, each time with his tongue buried in me, fingers pressing deep, staring up at me, memorizing every twitch.
He teases my clit with slow, lazy circles, just enough to make my hips jerk, never enough to let me fall.
Every time my body locks, begging, he stops. Mouth hovers, hot breath on soaked skin, and he smirks when I whine.
“You can take more. Show me how bad you want it.”
By the fourth time, my thighs are shaking and I’m cursing him, swearing, pleading, begging, and he eats it up, won’t stop until I’m crying.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Please. I can’t, I need.”
“You can. You’re doing so well.” He positions himself over me. Finally, finally. “One more time. Look at me.”
I look at him.
“I see you,” he says. “All of you. Every part. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He pushes inside me slow, letting me open around him. Never breaking eye contact.
“Dario.”
“I know.” He starts to move. Still slow. “I know, sweetheart. Stay with me.”
I stay with him. Through the build. Through the moments where I want to close my eyes, hide my face, disappear into sensation, he calls me back. Keeps me present. Keeps me here.
“Feel how wet you are for me? That’s all mine. Hold it for me. Don’t you dare let go.”
He picks up his pace. Rough and deep, hips slamming, filthy praise pouring from his lips.
I match, legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper.
“Now, baby. Show me how pretty you come for me. Give it up. Give it all to me.”
He pounds into me, thumb circling my clit, never breaking eye contact.
I break, coming so hard I scream his name, everything inside me snapping loose as I clamp around his cock.
He buries himself to the hilt, shuddering, spilling deep while his hands grip my hips and he chokes out praise, eyes staying on mine.
Seeing me. Holding me. Keeping me real.
He collapses on top of me, sweat-slick, still inside, holding me like I’m oxygen.
I’m wrecked. Full disaster. I can’t move. My legs are noodles, my brain’s melted, and if I tried to get out of bed I’d probably slither straight to the floor.
This is not an exaggeration. I’m physically incapable of regret, shame, or coherent thought. I’m post-orgasmic soup.
Pretty sure I said things that would make my therapist retire, but whatever. I can’t remember them, and even if I could, there’s not a single ounce of shame left in my bloodstream, just sugar, Dario, and a medically alarming amount of serotonin.
“He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Stay put.”
“Like I have a choice,” I say. “You’ve ruined me for all horizontal surfaces.”
He shakes his head, leaves for the bathroom, comes back with a warm cloth. Cleans me up like he’s performing a sacred ritual, except I keep trying to squirm away and make jokes and he keeps shushing me and doing it anyway.
Then he pulls on a robe, picks up the phone, and speaks quietly into it. Room service. Because apparently we’re starring in our own luxury porn.
“What did you order?”
“Everything.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.” He climbs back into bed. Pulls me against his chest. “How do you feel?”
“Like a Picasso. Nothing is where it used to be. Also? You owe me a new spine.”
“Good then?”
“Good. So good. Dangerously good. You should get a certificate for that shit.”
He hums. “I aim to please.”
I nuzzle into his neck, inhale his scent, still trembling. “I swear, if you ever stop, I will haunt you.”
We lie there in silence for a few minutes. Breathing together. His hand stroking my hair.
“Thank you,” I say eventually.
He tilts my chin, teasing. “For what?”
“For, uh… keeping me anchored. Sometimes I go AWOL up here.” I tap my forehead. “You called me back. That’s new. That’s…nice. Weird. Overwhelming. I like it.”
He smiles, all soft edges. “I want all of you. Even the parts that try to run.”
My eyes sting. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll cry.”
“Crying is allowed.”
“Not in this time zone, it isn’t. There’s a fine. You have to pay it in chocolate croissants.”
He laughs. “Your rules are wild.”
“I let you do the whole boss me around shit, so you can pay the croissant charge.”
There’s a knock and Dario goes full five-star, robe half-on, hair a mess. I ogle his ass like I paid a cover charge, then sprawl back and practice my debauched empress look for the poor soul with the room service cart.
He returns wheeling a cart loaded with more food than two people could reasonably consume.
“I said everything,” he reminds me.
“I see that.”
Strawberries. Chocolate croissants. A tray of pastries. Eggs benedict. Fresh fruit. Some kind of elaborate yogurt parfait.
“Is that champagne?”
“Mimosas. It’s nearly noon.”
“It is?”
“Time flies when you’re being thoroughly ravished.”
I choke on a laugh. “Did you just say ravished?”
“I did.” He climbs back into bed with the tray of strawberries. “Open.”
“What?”
“Open your mouth. I’m feeding you.”
“I can feed myself.”
“I’m aware. Open.”
I open my mouth. He places a strawberry on my tongue. Watches me chew and swallow with that focused attention that should be unnerving and is instead unbearably hot.
“Another?”
“Please.”
He feeds me strawberries. Then chocolate. Then bites of croissant that he tears off with his fingers and places directly in my mouth while I lie there like some kind of debauched Roman empress.
“This is ridiculous,” I say between bites.
“This is aftercare.”
“Aftercare usually involves water and maybe a blanket.”
“I think aftercare should always involve pastries. Blanket’s optional, orgasms are not.” He wipes a bit of chocolate from my lip with his thumb. Licks it off. “Any complaints?”
I have zero complaints. I have the opposite of complaints.
I have a bone-deep contentment that I didn’t know was possible, lying in a nest of sheets while a man who once terrified me feeds me chocolate and looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“I have to leave tomorrow,” he says quietly.
There it is. The thing we’ve been avoiding.
“I know.”
“But I’m coming back. After you’ve had time with Enzo. All three of us will be back.”
“That sounds ominous.”
I kiss him. Then I reach for the chocolate croissants.
“First, I need more pastries. I have to rebuild my strength before I face that particular emotional gauntlet.”
He laughs. Feeds me more croissants.
I want to freeze this moment. I want to tattoo it behind my eyes for the days when the world tries to make me forget I can be this happy, this fed, this thoroughly fucking seen.
Maybe that’s greedy. But I’ve always been greedy for him. For all of them. For every feral, hungry, impossible part of myself.
Somewhere between the chocolate and the champagne and the way he looks at me like I’m worth every complication, I start to believe that this impossible thing might actually work.
All of it.
All of them.
All of me.
Finally, impossibly whole.