Chapter 7 #2
I pressed my body against hers, feeling the softness of her curves against my athletic frame. My skin slid against hers, a sensation that sent shivers down my spine.
I kissed the hollow of her throat, my lips trailing down her neck, savoring the taste of her skin. Her hands gripped my shoulders, her nails digging into me as if to anchor herself to the moment. I could feel her heart racing, her breath coming in short gasps, and it fueled my desire.
My mouth moved lower, my lips finding the sensitive spot just below her left breast, where a tiny birthmark marked her skin like a claim.
The same birthmark I'd kissed three years ago in Miami. Proof.
I sucked gently, my tongue swirling around the spot, savoring the confirmation. She moaned, her head falling back, exposing her neck—the same response she'd given me then, when she'd been Celia, and I'd been Antonio.
"Fuck, Cassian," she breathed, her voice thick with need.
I smirked against her skin, knowing exactly how to unravel her. My hands moved to her waist, my fingers hooking into the lace of her panties. With a swift, impatient motion, I tore them aside, the fabric giving way easily.
Her legs fell open for me, her wet heat beckoning. I didn't bother with foreplay—not tonight. I needed to feel her, to know if this was real or just a ghost of what we'd had. I positioned myself between her thighs, my throbbing cock teasing her entrance.
"You know how to make me beg, don't you?" she whispered, her eyes dark with desire.
I didn't answer. Instead, I thrust into her in one hard stroke, her walls gripping me like a vice. Her pussy was tight and hot, a perfect fit around my cock.
She gasped, her head falling back against the marble wall, and I fucked her with a desperation born of three years of wondering if she'd forgotten me.
Her hands tangled in my dark hair, pulling me down for a kiss that was anything but gentle.
Our mouths collided, tongues dueling as I pounded into her, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the penthouse.
I reached between us, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in time with my thrusts. She cried out, her body tensing as her orgasm ripped through her.
"Cassian, please—" she pleaded, but I didn't stop. I fucked her through it, milking her climax, her pussy clenching around me like a fist.
As my own release built, I pulled out, gripping her hips as I turned her around, pressing her against the wall.
"On your knees," I growled, my voice rough with need. She didn't hesitate. She dropped to the floor, her curvy ass in the air, her body still glistening from our earlier fuck.
I didn't give her time to catch her breath. I slammed into her from behind, her tight pussy swallowing me whole. She moaned, her voice muffled against the carpet.
"Take it," I commanded, and she did, her body surrendering to mine as I fucked her relentlessly, my balls slapping against her ass with each thrust.
I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back as I whispered in her ear, "Tell me, Isla. Do you remember?" Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she didn't answer. Instead, she pushed back against me, meeting my thrusts, her body speaking what her mouth wouldn't.
I was close, so fucking close, and I didn't care if she remembered or not. I just needed her. Needed this. I let go of her hair, bracing my hands on the wall as I pounded into her one last time, my orgasm exploding, my cum shooting deep inside her.
She moaned my name as I finished—not "Mr. Barone" or "Cassian," but "Cass."
I stilled, the intimacy of it striking me like a blow.
Cass.
Not the formal name my business associates used. Not even the full name that my family called me. But the shortened version—intimate, personal. The name that only people close to me were permitted to use.
And she'd never asked permission.
She'd just said it, breathless and natural, as if she'd called me that a thousand times before. As if we had that kind of history.
But we didn't. Not as far as she'd admitted.
In Miami, I'd been Antonio. She'd been Celia. Fake names, fake identities. Back then, she didn't know my real name. I didn't know hers.
But "Cass"?
I'd told her to call me Cassian. Had insisted on it, actually, tired of the formal "Mr. Barone." But I'd never said she could shorten it. Never given her permission to use the nickname reserved for my inner circle.
Yet she'd said it like it was natural. Like we had that kind of intimacy.
Unless she'd known all along who I was. Unless coming to work for me had been deliberate.
"Cass," she gasped again, her back arching beneath me. "Don't stop—"
I gave her what she asked for, but my mind was racing even as I finished. That nickname—so casual, so intimate—was proof.
She'd known who I was before walking into my office. She'd researched me. Learned about me. Come to me with purpose.
The question was why.
Afterward, she slipped on my discarded shirt and walked to the window. I watched her from the doorway, admiring the way the city lights illuminated her silhouette.
She'd done this before. In Miami. Borrowed my shirt, walked to the window, stood with her back to me while she processed what we'd done.
The same pattern. The same choreography.
How could she not remember?
"Regrets?" I asked, watching for any sign of recognition.
She shook her head but didn't turn. "Complications."
I approached, stopping just short of touching her. "We're adults. We can handle complications." I paused, testing. "We've handled them before, haven't we?"
She stiffened, just slightly. "What do you mean?"
"This." I gestured between us. "It doesn't feel new. Feels like something we're repeating."
She finally looked at me, her expression guarded again. "Does it matter?"
"Yes." I stepped closer. "It matters."
"Why?" Her voice was carefully neutral. "What difference would it make if we had… done this before?"
Everything. It would change everything.
"Because I don't like mysteries," I said instead. "Especially ones standing in my shirt, in my apartment, after sleeping in my bed."
Not an answer. A deflection.
I studied her face, searching for truth—though not about whether she remembered. She did. The evidence was overwhelming: the birthmark I'd kissed in Miami, the nickname only my inner circle used, the way she'd borrowed my shirt and walked to this exact spot like muscle memory.
No, the question wasn't whether she knew.
It was what else she was hiding. What secret was worth all this pretense? What had brought her back to me after almost three years, hiding behind a new name and manufactured credentials?
"You called me Cass," I said quietly, watching her reaction. "When we were together. No one calls me that except close friends and family."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't apologize." I stepped closer. "I'm just wondering where you heard it before."
Panic flashed in her eyes, quickly masked. "I—I don't know. It just came out."
Lie.
But I let it stand. For now.
We both knew this wasn't just one night. We both knew we'd been here before.
The question was when she'd finally admit it.
And what she'd been hiding since that night in Miami.