Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Two weeks.
Two weeks of Vitali hovering over me like a goddamn mother hen, watching my every move as if I might shatter into a million pieces. At first, it was sweet. Comforting, even. But now? Now it’s making me insane.
I stretch out on the couch, wincing slightly as my ribs protest the movement. They’re healing, but they still ache, a dull reminder of everything I went through. Of everything we survived.
Vitali, who had been standing near the window, turns the second he hears my sharp inhale.
“You’re in pain.” His voice is laced with concern, his brows furrowed as he moves toward me.
“I’m fine,” I sigh, resting my head back against the cushions. “It’s just a little sore.”
His jaw tightens, and I know that look. He’s about two seconds away from demanding I take more pain meds, wrap myself in bubble wrap, and never leave his sight again.
“Vitali,” I say gently, grabbing his wrist before he can start fussing over me again. “You need to stop. ”
He stiffens. “Stop what?”
I arch a brow. “Acting like I’m made of glass. I’m healing. I survived. I’m not going to break.”
His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lowers himself onto the couch beside me, exhaling heavily. His fingers brush against mine absentmindedly as if he needs the contact to ground himself.
“I know you’re strong,” he murmurs, staring at our intertwined hands. “That’s never been a question.” He pauses, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin. “But I almost lost you, amore mio. And I don’t know how to just… move on from that.”
My heart clenches.
I shift, ignoring the ache in my body as I turn to face him fully. “I’m here,” I remind him softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His gaze lifts to mine, and there’s something raw in his expression, something unguarded. Vitali is always composed, always in control, but I can see it now—the fear he’s been holding onto. The weight of everything that happened.
I reach up, cupping his face with both hands. “You saved me,” I whisper. “You always will.”
His eyes darken, his hands sliding around my waist with careful precision as if still terrified of hurting me.
“I will,” he vows, his voice thick with emotion. “Always.”
I smile, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. He responds instantly, deepening the kiss just enough to remind me that no matter how much he hovers, no matter how overprotective he gets, this man is still mine.
And I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.
Vitali is still staring at me like I might disappear if he looks away for too long. His hands are careful, hesitant, like he’s afraid he might break me if he holds on too tight. But I don’t want careful. I don’t want soft. I want him.
The ache in my ribs is manageable. The bruises are fading. And the heat pooling low in my stomach has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me—like he wants me but won’t allow himself to have me.
I shift in his lap, wincing slightly but making sure to press against him just enough to see his jaw tighten. His hands twitch on my waist, his grip instinctively tightening before he forces himself to relax.
“Gia,” he warns, his voice low, dangerous.
I bite my lip, dragging my fingers up his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. “What?” I ask, all innocence, tilting my head as I glance up at him through my lashes.
His nostrils flare, and I know that look. That barely restrained control. That silent battle between what he wants and what he thinks I need.
“Don’t.” His voice is thick, rough.
I ignore him. My fingers slide lower, dipping beneath the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my touch. His stomach flexes under my palm, and I smirk.
“You don’t want me?” I murmur, shifting again, pressing myself more firmly against him.
He exhales sharply, his grip on my hips growing impossibly tight before he suddenly curses under his breath and pulls back, his hands wrapping around my wrists, stilling me.
“ Cazzo, ” he growls, eyes blazing as he searches my face. “I always want you, Gia. But you’re still healing.”
I pout, leaning forward so my lips brush against the corner of his mouth. “I feel fine. ”
His jaw clenches. “You were barely able to sit up on your own a week ago,” he reminds me, his voice strained.
I hum, letting my tongue flick out to taste his skin, reveling in the way his breath shudders. “And now I’m sitting just fine. Straddling you, in fact.”
His hands tighten on my wrists, his entire body rigid beneath me. “You’re testing me,” he mutters, his tone dark.
I grin. “Maybe.”
His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unyielding. Then, suddenly, he shifts, flipping me onto my back on the couch with an ease that has my breath catching. He hovers over me, his weight resting on his forearms, his face inches from mine.
“Is this what you want, dolcezza ?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over mine, teasing, taunting.
“Yes,” I breathe, arching beneath him.
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “I won’t risk hurting you,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “Not yet.”
I groan in frustration, making him smirk.
“But,” he continues, brushing his lips over my temple, “when you’re healed?” His teeth graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine. “You won’t walk for days, amore mio. ”
Heat floods my body, my breath catching at the promise in his voice.
“Tease,” I mutter, glaring up at him.
He chuckles, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips before pulling away. “Call it payback for trying to seduce me while you’re still bruised.”
I huff, crossing my arms as he settles back against the couch, tugging me into his lap, but this time in a way that keeps me from accidentally rubbing against him again .
I know when I’ve lost a battle.
But this war?
Oh, I’ll win.
I shift in his lap again, intentionally this time, dragging my nails down his chest. His breath shudders, but his grip on me tightens—not in desire, but restraint.
“Gia,” he warns again, voice dark, rough.
I smile, leaning in until my lips just barely brush against his jaw. “You’re always so careful with me,” I murmur, letting my breath warm his skin. “But what if I don’t want careful?”
His fingers flex against my waist, his body rigid beneath me. “You need time to heal,” he mutters, but I can hear it—that edge in his voice, the crack in his self-control.
“I need you .”
His sharp inhale is the only warning I get before I’m suddenly on my back, sprawled across the couch. His weight is warm, solid above me, his hands framing my face with an almost desperate tenderness.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he grits out, his jaw clenched so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding.
I arch up, letting my lips ghost over his. “I know exactly what I’m asking for.”
For a moment, he just looks at me—searching, conflicted. Then, something in him snaps.
He drags his mouth over my jaw, my throat, kissing and nipping his way down my body. His hands move with reverence, but his touch is starved , like he’s been holding himself back for too long.
“I’ll give you what you need,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice a promise, a warning. “But you don’t get to rush me, dolcezza . ”
When he peels off my panties, he lets out a deep groan, gently parting my thighs.
“So fucking gorgeous.”
He leans in, his breath warm against my skin, nuzzling me with reverence so intense it feels almost sacred—like a sinner at an altar, worshiping with devotion only I deserve. Since the moment he took my virginity, he’s treated me this way, like something to be cherished , owned — adored .
Keeping his dark, hungry gaze locked on mine, he drags his tongue in a slow, torturous line up my slick folds. A gasp rips from my lips, my fingers threading through his hair on instinct, the need to touch him coursing through me like wildfire.
He teases me mercilessly, pressing soft, lingering kisses to every inch of me, his tongue stroking, exploring, claiming. My body trembles, need winding tighter with every maddening second until I’m tugging at his hair in a desperate, silent plea.
A smirk ghosts over his lips before he gives my clit a sharp, delicious nip, immediately soothing it with the warm slide of his tongue. My moan is ragged—broken, and when he finally slides a finger inside me, curling it just right, I swear I could cry.
“Fuck,” I pant, rolling my hips up to meet him.
“Soon,” he murmurs, his voice thick with promise. “Very soon.”
Then his lips seal around my clit, his tongue flicking with just the right pressure, and the world splinters apart. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, his relentless touch wringing every last drop of bliss from my shaking body.
“Vitali,” I whisper, still breathless, my fingers tightening in his hair. “Please. I need you.”
With a deep, guttural groan, he presses one last reverent kiss to my aching core before sitting back on his heels, making quick work of his clothes. My gaze roves over him, drinking in the raw power of his body—the sculpted ridges of his abs, the broad expanse of his chest, the way every muscle tenses with restraint. He’s devastatingly perfect, and he’s mine .
Lowering himself again, he trails slow, deliberate kisses up my body, his lips barely grazing the fading bruises that paint my skin. Each brush of his mouth is a silent promise, a vow that no one will ever touch me like that again. I cup his face, letting my fingers trace over his sharp jawline silently telling him I’m okay.
His dark eyes—always so black with hunger right before he takes me—lock onto mine as he carefully peels my shirt away. His touch is reverent, his movements unhurried as he positions himself above me, balancing his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t press too hard against my healing body.
I memorize him, just as I know he’s memorizing me. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the sinful curve of his lips as they stretch into a wicked smirk, the hunger simmering in his gaze. It’s been too long since we’ve had this— since I’ve had him —and the ache of missing him is unbearable.
“Does this hurt?” His voice is soft, filled with concern. “Should I stop?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t hurt. And don’t you dare stop.”
His finger drags down my cheek, slow and deliberate, before he leans in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss so soft it makes my chest ache. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, his tongue sweeping against mine in a slow, torturous dance. A soft whimper escapes me as he nudges the head of his cock inside me, but instead of giving me more, he stays there, teasing, stretching, driving me insane .
“Vitali,” I whine, frustration laced in my voice.
He smirks against my lips, still only giving me the barest inch of him, the thick tip dragging against my walls in slow, agonizing thrusts. My nails dig into his back, my body arching into his, trying to force him deeper, but he doesn’t budge. It’s the most exquisite torture, and I don’t know if I want it to last forever or if I want him to ruin me already.
He kisses me again, his forehead pressing against mine as he rasps, “You can beg all you want, little deer, but I’m not rushing this.”
A wicked smirk tugs at my lips, and I clench down around him, reveling in the deep, tortured groan that rumbles through his chest.
“Jesus,” he growls.
I bite back a smirk. “No, your wife.”
His laugh is deep and sinful, vibrating through me, and despite my frustration, I can’t help but smile.
But when he finally thrusts all the way in, stretching me to the point of ecstasy, smiling is the last thing I’m capable of.
I trail my hands over his shoulders, feeling the raw strength beneath my fingertips, then down his flexed biceps as he continues to torment me with slow, shallow thrusts. Every shift of his muscles, every controlled movement, is deliberate. Designed to drive me insane.
“More, vita mia ,” I murmur, my voice breathless with need.
He smirks, dark and sinful. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Sliding my hands to the back of his head, I pull him closer, locking my gaze with his. His eyes, dark and endless, hold so much restraint it makes my chest ache .
“Harder,” I whisper, my lips grazing his. “Please, Vitali. I’m not made of fucking glass.”
He stills, his body tensing as if warring with himself. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with something dangerously close to torment. “If I hurt you, you have to tell me.”
The pain and worry in his expression nearly shatters me. My big, strong, powerful husband—who has broken men with his bare hands, who commands fear with a single look—is terrified of hurting me . He’s willing to forgo his own pleasure, to hold himself back, just to protect me. For two weeks, he’s refused to let me do anything for him, insisting he doesn’t need it, and that I should only focus on healing. But I know him. I feel the way he trembles with restraint, the way his body aches just as much as mine. He needs this. He needs me .
I cup his face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I promise.”
He kisses me softly as he slides the rest of the way in, giving in to what we’ve both been craving. I rock my hips up and he lets out a groan as he begins to fuck me. The world around us fades away except the feeling of his skin hot against mine and the familiar scent of cedarwood surrounds me.
It doesn’t take long until he has my body tensing and plunging over the edge of the cliff into the waves below and I’m moaning his name into his mouth.
“Vitali,” I moan his name as I come down from my high. He smiles against my lips and groans as he pulses inside of me.
When we’re both spent, we remain tangled in each other’s embrace, as if the world outside has ceased to exist. He gently rolls us over, his strong arms guiding me so I can settle on top of him, allowing him to shed the worry of his weight. His fingers trace delicate patterns along my back, each touch slow and tender, as if savoring the warmth of the moment.
“ Te amo ,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head. “ Sempre e per sempre .”
“Sempre e per sempre , Vitali.”