29. Alexander #3
I notched the head of my cock against her and pushed in on one slow stroke, and three years of missing her collapsed into the tight, wet heat of finally being home.
She was soaked, so slick I sank in to the root in a single motion, and the sound she made, a broken, greedy moan against my jaw, went straight down my spine.
Her nails dug crescents into my shoulders.
I held still, buried to the hilt, jaw clenched, giving her a second to stretch around me and giving myself one not to come the moment I felt her clench.
“Okay?” I asked.
“More than okay.” She wrapped her legs around me. “Move. Please.”
I moved. Slow at first, dragging my cock almost all the way out and sinking back in, relearning the rhythm we’d once known by heart.
She met every thrust, her hips snapping up to take me deeper, her heels pressing into the backs of my thighs to drag me harder into her.
“That’s it,” she gasped. “God, just like that, don’t stop-” When I hit the angle that made her keen, I stayed there, grinding into her clit with every stroke, and watched her start to fall apart under me.
Someone knocked on the door.
Three sharp raps, close and unmistakable, followed by a voice in the hall. “Monsieur Whitmore? It’s Delacroix, from the Milan office. They said you were on this floor. If you have a moment before dinner…”
Sophia went rigid beneath me, her eyes flying open.
I froze, still buried inside her, both of us caught mid-motion.
The Whitmore name waited outside the door, and with it every version of this that ended in a photograph, in a story that would reach Paris before we did.
Her nails dug into my back. Neither of us breathed.
“He can hear us,” she mouthed, and her cheeks were flushed, her pulse hammering in her throat where I could feel it against my lips.
I should have called out that I’d meet him downstairs, done the responsible thing, the careful thing, the thing that protected the name on the door. Instead I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate, and watched her bite down on her own hand to keep from making a sound.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she breathed against her knuckles.
The footsteps in the hall hesitated. Then, after a moment that stretched thin as wire, retreated. And the knowledge that we’d nearly been caught, that we still might be, lit through both of us like a struck match.
“You’re soaked for me,” I breathed against her mouth. “Three years and your pussy still knows exactly who it belongs to.”
“Shut up and prove it, then.” Her heel dug into my ass. “Fuck me like you missed me.”
“I did miss you.” I kissed her, deep and filthy, and drove into her hard enough to knock the breath out of us both. “Every night. Hand around my cock, imagining you exactly like this. It was never enough.”
“Neither was my hand,” she admitted, and the confession undid me.
I fucked her harder, deeper, chasing three years of want, the headboard knocking against the wall now and neither of us caring who heard it. Her cunt fluttered around me, tightening, and I reached between us and worked her clit in tight circles until she was writhing on my cock, babbling, close.
“Look at me. I want to watch you come on my cock.”
Her eyes met mine, and I saw everything in them: fear, hope, love, despair. All of it, unfiltered, offered to me like a gift I hadn’t earned the right to hold.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too.” I held her gaze. “I never stopped.”
She came with my name in her mouth, her pussy clamping down around me in hard, greedy pulses, so tight it dragged me right to the edge and shoved me over.
I buried myself to the hilt and spilled into her, my hips stuttering, her name breaking apart against her throat, three years of missing her pouring out of me while she milked every last shudder from my cock.
We lay tangled together in the aftermath, breathing hard, neither of us willing to break the silence. I held her against my chest, my hand stroking up and down her spine, and I waited for the fear to come back. For her to realize what she’d done and regret it.
“I was terrified,” she said finally.
“Of what?”
“Of this. Of being with you again.” She propped herself up on one elbow to look at me. “I was afraid that if I let myself have this, I’d become the woman who disappeared inside our marriage. The one who made herself smaller to keep you.”
“And?”
“I still feel like me.” She sounded almost surprised. “I’m still Sophia. Not the version of me who forgot how to exist without you.”
I pulled her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead. “Then don’t ever become her for me again.”
“I won’t.” She settled back against my chest. “I can’t. She didn’t survive either of us, and I don’t want to resurrect her.”
“Good.” I held her tighter. “Because I fell in love with this version of you. The one who builds jewelry empires in Florence and shows up unannounced at hotels and tells me to shut up. I don’t want anyone else.”
“That’s good. Because this is who I am now.”
“I know. That’s what makes me the luckiest man alive.”
She laughed, the sound vibrating against my skin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest. There’s a difference.”
We stayed like that until the light changed, until the afternoon slid into evening and neither of us had moved except to reach for each other again. Nothing about it promised forever, or reconciliation, or any kind of guarantee.
But it was a start.
And for now, that was enough.