Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty Six
Caterina
Adrian is inside me. Fully and completely.
I am so full.
It is a perfect feeling.
He is a perfect fit.
I kiss him back, pouring all of the things I'm feeling into it. The awe, the pleasure, the overwhelming sense of rightness.
This feels right.
Being with him. Like this.
It's the most natural thing in the world.
He starts to move, a slow, gentle rocking of his hips.
It's a delicious friction.
I move with him, my body instinctively knowing the rhythm, the dance.
Our bodies are slick with sweat, sliding against each other in the most delicious way.
His hands are on my hips, guiding me, holding me close.
My hands are on his back, my nails digging into his skin, urging him on.
"Look at me," he commands.
My eyes meet his.
He brushes my bangs out of my eyes in an oddly sweet gesture.
"I need to see you, Caterina," he says, in this soft, quiet voice that makes me melt.
Then he pulls back, sliding out of me until only the head of his cock is inside.
He holds there for a moment, our gazes locked. The anticipation is a sweet, sharp ache.
Then he slides back in, filling me achingly slowly.
I'm going to die. I am going to die on this man's cock.
He does it again.
And again.
The slow, deliberate thrusting is torture. It's blissful, exquisite torture.
Each stroke is a revelation, a new wave of pleasure that washes over me.
He is not just fucking me. He is making love to me. And I am loving it.
I'm not thinking about the danger or any of the complications that will surely come in the morning.
All I'm thinking about is him. And this. And us.
"You feel so good, Caterina," he whispers. "So perfect."
I don't have the words to answer as my breath is stolen from me.
So I just show him.
I arch my back and wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper.
I am telling him everything with my body.
That I trust him.
That I want him.
That I am his.
His thrusts become a little faster, a little harder now. The slow, sweet loving is giving way to a more urgent, primal need.
We are no longer dancing.
We are running.
Chasing something we can't see but can feel.
Something huge and powerful and terrifying.
I can feel the pressure building again, the familiar tightening in my core.
I'm close. So close.
He can feel it too.
He's whispering in my ear, gently coaxing me up and up.
I press my face to his throat to muffle the sob of pleasure that escapes me.
"Shhh," he murmurs, "I've got you."
He slides a hand between us and presses his fingers to my sensitive clit. His tongue slides against mine, and I'm overloaded with sensation. He is everywhere. Inside me, around me, and on top of me.
I am completely consumed by him.
And then he does this thing. This one perfect thing.
He rotates his hips as he pushes back in, hitting me deep inside. My legs tighten around him, and my back arches until I'm almost bent in half, my hips straining against his.
I've never been this close before. To anything. It's a white-hot, blinding need. My mind is a perfect, humming blank. There is nothing but Adrian. The feel of him inside me, the scent of him, the sound of his voice.
My entire world has shrunk to this one room, this one man, this one perfect, agonizing moment.
"You've got one more in there for me, Cat," he whispers against my lips.
I whimper. I don't think I do. I think he's wrung me dry.
"Yes, you do," he coaxes sweetly, thrusting that wonderful, magical cock a little harder into me. "Come on. Give it to me. I want it. I want it all."
His fingers are still working their magic, and I can feel the waves of pleasure starting to peak, stronger even than before. The ocean is pulling me under, and I am powerless to resist.
"Adrian," I sob. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," he says. "Let go, baby. I'm right here. I'll catch you. Come with me." His pace quickens, and I know that he's close too. The thought of him losing control, of him finding his release inside me, is the final push I need.
He is chasing his own pleasure now, and the thought is so powerful, so hot, that it pushes me over the edge with him.
I am aware of Adrian calling my name as I ride the wave of pleasure.
A low groan is ripped from him as my pussy clamps down on him, milking his dick for all it's worth.
I feel a hot gush of fluid inside me, and the thought of him marking me from the inside out sends another, smaller wave of pleasure through me.
We ride it out together, our bodies moving in perfect sync, until we are both spent, breathless, and completely sated.
I collapse against him, my body limp and boneless. My head is on his shoulder, and I can feel the frantic, wild beat of his heart, a perfect mirror of my own.
My entire body is trembling.
Adrian is still inside me, nestled perfectly, and I don't want him to move any time soon.
I couldn't move if I wanted to, in fact. I definitely don't want to.
I just want to stay here, wrapped in his arms, forever.
My mind is starting to clear, the hazy fog of lust giving way to a new kind of awareness.
I am keenly aware of the sticky mess between my thighs, of the pleasant ache in my muscles, of the heavy, comforting weight of his arm around me.
And of the silence.
The silence in the room is heavy. The kind of heavy that happens after something big and significant has passed.
Something that has changed everything.
I don't want to break it. I don't want to talk.
It doesn't seem like he wants to either because he snuggles me in closer to his body, and his hand strokes my hair gently. I can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, and I find myself matching my breathing to his.
It's comforting.
It's safe.
It's an odd thought.
There aren't many times in my life that I've felt unsafe. In the stairwell, running away from men chasing us with guns. A few other times in my life, sure.
The obvious times. It's not necessarily that I've felt unsafe throughout my life.
But right now, lying in Adrian's arms, I realize that I'm not sure I've ever felt truly safe. The way you don't realize how loud the music was until it's turned off. I didn't realize that I never felt safe until just now.
Because with him, with this, I do.
I know it's an illusion. A temporary reprieve from the reality of our lives. He is a soldier, a weapon. He is here because he is paid to be here, because he was ordered to be here. He is not mine.
But it doesn't feel like that.
It feels real.
The thought is a little terrifying.
It's too much. Too soon.
I try to push it away, to focus on the feeling of his skin against mine, the steady beat of his heart.
He shifts a little, and I feel a pang of regret as he starts to withdraw.
But he doesn't go far.
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and I can't help the soft sigh that escapes me.
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, a simple, tender gesture that makes my heart ache.
"Stay here," he whispers. "Don't move."
As if I could.
I watch as he gets out of the bed, moving with a surprising lack of awkwardness for a man who was just shot.
He is a study in controlled power, even now. His body is a work of art, all lean muscle and taut skin, crisscrossed with a map of scars that tell a story of a life lived on the edge.
Each one is a question I want to ask, a story I want to know.
I watch as Adrian goes to the door and checks it, then the window. He disappears into the bathroom, and I figure he's checking the window in there too, though he probably already did that.
I curl up on my side, pulling the sheet around me, and smile sleepily.
Ever vigilant, my Adrian.
The room is a mess, a testament to our passion. The pillows are scattered, the sheets are tangled, and my robe is a small pile on the floor.
It looks like a bomb went off.
It's wonderful. The evidence of my recklessness, of our recklessness, is strewn across this room.
I am reckless. I'd never thought of myself as reckless before. I've always been the careful one, the responsible one.
But with him, all my carefully constructed walls come tumbling down. All the rules, all the inhibitions, all the fears... they all just melt away.
He comes back into the room, stops at the table to pour a glass of water, and brings it over to me. "Here," he says.
I push myself up, wincing as my sore muscles protest. I am not the only one feeling the aftermath, it seems.
He sees my wince, and a flicker of something—guilt, maybe?—crosses his face.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gruff.
"I'm fine," I say, taking the glass. "Just a little... used."
A wicked look comes into his eyes. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
I take a sip of the water, my eyes never leaving his. "A very good thing."
He smiles, slow and satisfied. My stomach does a little flip, and I want him to do me all over again.
It's insane, impossible, that I could want him again.
Every inch of my body was ravaged, and I came more than I've ever come before, harder than I've ever come before. My clit is sensitive, my pussy can practically still feel him sliding in and out of me. My lips are swollen, and my hair is a mess from his hands.
Hell, I can still feel him dripping out of me and coating my thighs.
And I already want him again.
It's a sickness. It has to be.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful to give me space. The silence between us is comfortable, easy.
“You're not hurt?"
I shake my head. "No. Are you? Your side..."
He touches the dressing absently. "It's fine. I told you. A little strain."
"Liar," I say, but there's no heat in it.
His smile fades, replaced by a thoughtful expression. He's watching me, a strange intensity in his gaze. As if he's trying to figure something out. As if he's seeing me for the first time.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. I tuck my hair behind my ear, though I'm sure it does nothing to improve it. "Do I have... something on my face?"
He reaches out and gently traces the line of my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. The touch is electric.
"No," he says, his voice low and rough. "You're just... perfect."
My heart stumbles, then starts to beat double-time.
I want to believe him. I want to believe that this man, this soldier, this dangerous, beautiful man, sees me and thinks "perfect."
But it's hard.
I've spent my entire life being judged. By my father, by my brothers, by society. I'm always too much, or not enough. Too smart, too independent, too stubborn. Too pretty or not pretty enough. Too much of a woman for a man, but not enough to be trusted with a man's world.
I've never been just... right.
It's exhausting.
And here he is, looking at me like I'm some kind of goddess.
It's overwhelming.
Perfect is not a word that has ever been used to describe me.
I look away, unable to hold his intense gaze.
"Hey," he says, his voice soft. "Look at me."
I hesitate, then meet his eyes.
"I mean it, Caterina," he says, his thumb still stroking my cheek. "I've never seen anything like you."
My throat feels tight. I can't speak.
He leans in and gives me a soft, sweet kiss. A kiss that says more than words ever could. A kiss that's full of a tenderness I didn't know he was capable of.
I lean in, my body melting helplessly into his. I want to crawl inside him and live there, in this safe, warm place where I am perfect.
His tongue traces my lips. Despite everything that just happened between us: me walking into his room and dropping my robe, sucking his cock, literally riding his face, having soul-altering sex with him... Despite all that, he's still asking permission to take it further.
My heart—my poor defenseless heart—stutters and falls for him. Falls right here and now for this dangerous, complicated, wounded man.
I open my mouth to him, helpless to do anything else. His tongue sweeps in, and I am lost again, in this perfect, beautiful storm.
He is kissing me like I am a treasure he has just discovered, a precious, fragile thing he is afraid of breaking.
I want to be his treasure.
I want him to be mine.
He pulls back, his breathing a little ragged. He rests his forehead against mine.
"Come on," he whispers. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He stands up and holds out a hand.
I take it, and he pulls me to my feet.
My legs are wobbly, and I stumble against him. He puts his arms around me, holding me steady. I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
"You okay?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I think you broke me," I say, my words muffled against his chest.
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that I feel all the way to my toes. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
Next time.
The thought of a next time sends a thrill through me. A thrill of fear, and a thrill of something else, something that feels a lot like hope.