Chapter 33 #2
“You did,” I say, and my voice is a low, possessive growl. I don’t pull back. I stay in her space, my hands settling on her waist, thumbs digging into her soft shirt. “You’re a natural, little Gia. Dangerous and precise.”
A small, genuine smile touches her lips. “I learned from the best.”
The air between us isn’t just charged. It’s live. It hums with a current that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up. The gun is forgotten, lying on the counter beside us. I look at her, and the words I’ve choked back for weeks finally tear free.
“After days like the warehouse… after the basement and the fucking meetings…” My thumb strokes the silk over her hip. “Your presence is the only thing that steadies me, Gia. You’re the quiet space I return to when everything else is goddamn chaos.”
It feels like stripping my own skin off. Like handing her a loaded gun and pointing it at my own chest. But I don’t care. The Butcher doesn’t exist here. With her, I’m just a man who wants to breathe.
Her expression shifts. The playful glint vanishes, replaced by a look of such profound, heartbreaking tenderness that it hurts. It’s a physical blow to my ribs.
Fuck me. This woman could kill me and I’d thank her.
She reaches up. Her hand cups my jaw, her fingers warm. Her thumb finds the scar on my chin and traces it, a slow, deliberate caress.
“Rafael,” she whispers. Just my name. It’s a prayer.
“I’m serious,” I breathe out, my own hand moving to cradle her face. “I’ve built a world where everything is a target. But you… you’re the only thing that isn’t.”
I lean in. My mouth finds hers.
The kiss starts tender. A soft press of lips, a testing of the space between us.
Her mouth is warm, pliant. I feel her sigh against me.
Then urgency floods in, a dam breaking. My tongue slips into her mouth, tasting her—coffee, adrenaline, her.
She moans, a soft, surrendering sound, and her hands fist in my hair, pulling me closer, until our bodies are sealed together.
There is no light between us. No air. Just heat and the frantic meeting of mouths.
I’m claiming her. Marking her as mine in this room built for violence. Her back arches, pushing her breasts against my chest. My hands slide down, gripping her ass, hauling her up against me. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, locking me in place.
“Rafael… here?” she pants against my lips, her breath coming in hot, ragged bursts. Her fingers are already fumbling with the buttons of my shirt.
“Right here,” I rasp. “Right now.”
I help her. I rip the shirt open myself.
The buttons pop and scatter across the concrete floor like spent shells.
The fabric tears. I want to feel every inch of her skin against mine.
I want to drown in the feel of her. My chest is bare now, the old scars and fresh bruises exposed to the cool air.
She gasps, her hands spreading over my pectorals, her nails digging in slightly.
I don’t wait. I slide my hands under her shirt, finding the smooth, hot skin of her back.
I pull the shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside.
Her bra is simple, black lace. I don’t unhook it.
I pull it down, exposing her breasts to the harsh light.
They’re perfect. Full, with nipples already hard and peaked.
I lower my head and take one into my mouth.
She cries out, her head falling back. I suck, hard, my tongue circling the tight peak.
My teeth graze it, and she shudders, her hands clamping on my shoulders.
I switch to the other, lavishing it with the same rough attention.
Her hips grind against mine, the pressure of her jeans against my erection an agonizing friction.
“Off,” I order, my voice dark.
She obeys, her hands scrambling for her belt.
I help, yanking the trousers down her thighs.
They pool at her ankles. She’s left in just her panties—silk, already damp.
I can see the dark patch of moisture through the fabric.
My fingers hook into the sides and tear them away.
The sound of ripping silk is obscene in the quiet room.
She’s bare now. Exposed. The clinical light shows every detail: the sheen of sweat on her stomach, the dark curls between her thighs, the glistening wetness already coating her inner lips.
I hike her up again, her back hitting the cold, unyielding metal of the gun cabinet.
The impact is jarring, but she doesn’t complain.
Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and dark and wanting.
I lean into her, my mouth finding hers again in a kiss that’s pure desperation.
I’m feeding on her, my tongue delving deep, my hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wide for me.
My own jeans are a torture. I shove them down just enough, freeing my cock. It’s thick, hard, aching. I don’t tease. I don’t prepare her. The trust is already there. The need is too vast.
I press the head against her entrance. She’s so wet I slide in easily, but I still go slow. A slow, powerful, inexorable thrust that fills her inch by inch. Her eyes roll back. A choked, sobbing gasp escapes her lips.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I growl, my voice a primal, ragged thing. I’m buried in her to the root, my body pinning hers to the metal.
“I’m yours,” she sobs, her head falling back against the cabinet. “God, Rafael, I’m yours.”
I pull back almost all the way, then drive in again.
Hard. Deep. The sound of our bodies meeting is wet, flesh against flesh.
The cold metal creaks faintly under our weight.
I set a relentless pace, each thrust a claiming, each withdrawal a promise of more.
My hands are possessive on her thighs, holding her open, controlling the angle.
I watch her face. Watch her mouth fall open, watch her eyes lose focus, watch the pleasure etch itself across her features.
The sex is rough, fueled by the adrenaline of the range and the raw vulnerability I’ve poured into her hands.
I’m dominant, my movements punishing, but there’s a desperation in it I can’t hide.
I’m holding onto her like she’s the only anchor in a stormy sea.
Every plunge into her hot, tight depths is a prayer. Every gasp she makes is an answer.
One of my hands leaves her thigh and slides up her body, finding her breast again. I squeeze, roll her nipple between my thumb and finger. She arches, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Her inner muscles clench around me, a sudden, tight spasm that makes me grunt.
“That’s it,” I rasp, fucking her harder. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
I shift my angle slightly, driving upward. She screams, her hands scrabbling at my back, nails biting into my skin. Her climax is building, a visible earthquake shaking through her body. Her thighs tremble. Her stomach quakes.
“Rafael… I’m… I’m going to…”
I don’t let her finish. I slam into her, once, twice, three times, my own control fraying. “Do it,” I command, my voice breaking. “Now.”
And she does.
It’s not just a climax. It’s a release. A torrent.
Her body seizes around me, a vice-like grip that borders on pain.
Then, a gush of hot fluid erupts from her, soaking my cock, my thighs, dripping.
Squirting. A flood of her pleasure, uncontrollable.
The scent of her, musky and sweet, mixes with the cordite and oil in the air.
The shock of it, the sheer visceral proof of her surrender, triggers my own end.
A guttural, raw sound rips from my throat as I thrust one last time, deep, and spill into her.
My release is hot and violent, filling her as her own fluid coats me.
I collapse against her, my forehead pressing into hers, our bodies heaving for air in the dim, flickering light of the range.
We stay like that. Joined. Dripping. The smell of sex and gunpowder is heavy, primal. My cock is still inside her, softening slowly. Her legs are still wrapped around me, locked tight. Her breath is hot on my neck.
I look at her. My wife. My quiet space. The woman I’ve just trusted with my future, my body, my rawest need.
Fuck.
I really am in so much trouble.
Her hands are still on my back, now stroking gently through the sweat. She nuzzles into my neck, her lips brushing my skin. “You’re mine too,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”
I do know it. The knowledge is a weight in my chest, terrifying and beautiful. I pull back slightly, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are soft, satisfied, but there’s a new heat there too. A curiosity..
Fuck.
I really am in so much trouble.
And the worst part is, I’m the one who handed her the gun.