Chapter 14
Katarina
The abrupt shift from his commanding presence to this quiet request for consent twists my stomach.
He’s giving me a choice.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I nod.
His fingers are careful as he releases the immobilizer's straps. The relief in my shoulder is instant, but so is the fresh throb of pain from the shift in my posture. He peels the wet shirt over my head agonizingly slow, guiding my left arm free first, then he eases the fabric down my injured right arm like I’m made of glass.
When the shirt hits the wet floor with a soft slap, damp air kisses my skin, and Damiano’s gaze drops to my bare chest.
For one heartbeat, he stares. His eyes trace every bruise, every curve, every inch of bare skin now exposed to him.
I watch something shift in his expression—the careful mask cracking, replaced by a raw, familiar hunger.
The same look he used to get the moment he saw me naked during all those months of fake-dating.
One look at me bare, and he loses it. A dark thrill mixes with the fear and anger in my mind.
He exhales sharply through his nose and runs a hand through his hair.
Then he rises to his feet and scoops me up, walks us out of the shower, and lowers me gently into the claw-foot tub. He turns on the faucet, and I start to relax as warm water rises around me and steam curls between us. I sink back against the folded towel he places behind my neck, closing my eyes.
For a long moment, I feel him watching me.
“Are you just going to sit there and watch me?” I ask, not bothering to open my eyes.
Then his hand moves—slow, almost reverent. He traces a line down my neck, over the curve of my breast, across my waist, letting the water glide over his fingers.
My eyes lift to his.
“Can I?” he asks, his pupils dilating.
I nod.
He slides my panties down my legs and drops them aside. I’m completely bare now, submerged in warm water, while he kneels beside the tub.
He picks up a soft cloth and begins to wash my body painstakingly slowly. First my arms, then my legs, then over the bruises that have formed across my sides. His movements are gentle, almost worshipful. The warm water laps my skin, soothing and heightening everything at once.
But I can feel the tension building in him. I notice his breathing has changed. His jaw is tight, and I can feel him fighting for control… and losing.
I reach out with my good hand and press it flat against his chest, right over the dark ink of an angel I’m all too familiar with. His heartbeat is racing.
“Show me,” I whisper.
He gives me a questioning look.
“The real you. No more lies.” I add.
He stills before leaning in until his mouth is a breath away from mine.
“I never told you I was a criminal, but I never pretended to be someone else.”
“Touch me,” I whisper against his lips. “Like you used to.”
God, I just tried to run from him, and now I’m asking him to touch me.
It’s pathetic, but I don’t care. I need to feel something other than grief and fear. Just for a little while, I want him to erase the nightmare.
My good hand tangles in his hair.
I blink, my eyes darting between his eyes and lips. Then he closes the distance.
The kiss starts slow, deep, and searching. His tongue strokes mine with deliberate patience, like he’s relearning every inch of my mouth. I sigh into him, my good hand sliding into his hair. It has been months since he touched me like this, and it feels so good.
His hand slips beneath the water again, his fingers trace lightly over my inner thigh, teasing, barely touching where I need him. Then he circles my clit with feather-light strokes, drawing soft gasps from me.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs against my lips. “Just like you used to be.”
“Damiano…” I let out a shaky breath, my voice barely above a whisper as I rock against his fingers.
He slides one finger inside me, then two, moving with agonizing slowness—curling, stroking, learning me again. The pleasure builds gradually, warm and deep, spreading through my body like the heat of the water.
I moan softly, hips rolling to meet his hand. He kisses me deeper, still slow, still controlled. But I can feel his restraint beginning to fray.
His fingers move faster. Deeper. The heel of his palm presses firmly against my clit with every thrust. His kiss turns rougher—teeth nipping my lips, his tongue demanding more. Water splashes over the edge of the tub as my hips start moving with more urgency.
“Damiano…” I gasp his name like a plea.
He groans, the noise resonating against my lips.
“You’re testing me,” he breathes, fingers pumping harder now, curling perfectly against the spot that makes my vision blur. “You want to see the real me?”
I bite back a moan, my voice shaky but defiant as I look straight into his eyes.
“Maybe,” I whisper breathlessly, hips rocking against his hand. “I need to know… if the man I fell for is still in there.”
His eyes darken at my words. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, thumb pressing harder on my clit. I bite my lower lip as the sensations drive me near the edge.
“Oh, he’s here,” he growls. “And he’s not hiding anymore. You’re fucking mine now, you understand? No one else touches you. No one else hurts you. And no one else will ever make you cum like this.”
The fierce promise, combined with the relentless rhythm of his fingers, tips me over the edge.
I come hard, crying out into his mouth as my walls clamp down around his fingers. My back arches violently, water sloshing everywhere. He doesn’t stop, stroking me through every pulse, drawing it out until I’m shaking and whimpering, tears mixing with the steam on my face.
When the last tremor finally fades, I slump against his arm, chest heaving.
Damiano slowly withdraws his fingers. He brings them to his lips and licks them clean while holding my gaze, eyes still burning with hunger.
He leans in and kisses me again—slower this time, almost tender.
I pull back just enough to look at him, still trying to catch my breath.
This is the same man who used to fuck me senseless, then hold me all night like he was scared I’d disappear. He is supposed to be a bad man. But how can I accept that when all he has ever done for me was save me, over and over again?
The shame burns hot in my chest, but so does the undeniable truth: Even knowing who he is, my body still craves him as it did back then.
And that might just be the death of me.
A loud knock on the bedroom door shatters the moment.
“That must be Gio,” he mutters, his jaw tightening.
He caresses my left cheek before asking, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Can you finish up alone?”
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper.
He wipes his hand on a towel and stands.
“The doctor will tend to your wounds after you’re finished.” He mutters.
“There’s no need. These are nothing.” I shake my head.
“Okay.” He plants another kiss on my lips, then leaves.
When he’s gone, the water suddenly feels too cold against my heated skin. My body is still humming, and my mind is spinning faster than ever.
At least now I know: he’s still the man who can’t resist me.
That’s the only leverage I have—and I intend to use it.