Chapter 29 - MASSIMO #2
It's the frank confusion on her face that makes me stop and run a hand through my hair. I turn away from her because, honestly, I'm about to hit something. She grabs the arm of my suit jacket. "What attack, Massimo?"
She's not strong enough to turn me around, but I'm not a coward, so I face her. "I was attacked, run over by a car. I was out for several months." I explain, running my hand through my hair again before I plant my face against the elevator wall, hard enough to send spider cracks through the mirror.
I move forward; she takes a step back until she hits the other side of the elevator. Both of my palms now plant on either side of her face, locking her in. "When I was somewhat able to move, I found out that you married Carter fucking Whitford."
My fury washes over her face, but she doesn't shrink back. She leans forward, meeting me nearly nose to nose.
"Because I was pregnant and left with the choice to either marry the man who sold me out or have an abortion," she spits into my face.
Both our breathing is hard and uneven. Chests heaving, she stares up, and I stare down. Down into the most mesmerizing green eyes I've ever seen. Eyes I had gotten lost in ten years ago and now know I will again.
Her words penetrate my brain. Barely. There will be time for it later. Right now, all that exists are those eyes burning into me with a passion I know all too well. My cock responds in kind.
"Jenna," I rasp.
"Massimo," she breathes, right before her hands knot into my jacket and tie, pulling me down.
My arms move from the sides of her face.
One to her waist, the other to the back of her head.
I pull her against me like a man who is clinging to a lifeboat in the middle of rapids.
Our mouths clash. It's not gentle. It's an explosion of emotions that have been pent up and held hostage for ten years.
We're consuming each other. That's the only way to name it.
Ten years, a million lies, every mile and minute of separation, none of it matters.
Not in this moment, not with her hands desperate on my chest, not with my mouth claiming hers like I'll die if I stop.
She bites me. Her nails dig into my shoulder through silk and bone, and it's so familiar, so right, I have to choke down a laugh, or I'll lose myself too fast.
I don't wait. I don't ask. I slide my hand into her hair, fist the strands at the nape of her neck, and pull her up into another kiss, hard, hungry, all the rage and need of ten years channels straight through my mouth.
Her lips split against mine, the faint copper tang of blood, but she doesn't flinch.
We devour each other, trying to win, to erase, to survive.
I want to bite her, to mark her for every night I spent burning for this and every day I hated myself for it.
She meets me head-on, grinding up into my space as if she's desperate to climb inside my skin.
My hand works down, rucking her skirt up so fast the seams scream in protest, the sound nearly drowned out by the wet, gasping breaths between our mouths.
Her thighs bracket my hips, her muscles flex.
God, she's soft, but there's strength I didn't remember, or maybe never saw.
She's trembling. I don't know if it's fear, fury, or the simple act of finally being wanted.
I don't care. I want all of it. I want to drink her until she shakes apart.
Her fingers are already on my belt. Her hands fumble with my buckle, almost inexperienced, but that can't be, she's been married for ten years.
She drags me free, and her hand tightens around my cock, solid and possessive, stroking with just enough pressure that my vision whites out for a second. Her mouth parts, and a hiss escapes.
I push her panties aside—black, lace, a tiny useless scrap that just makes me harder—and run two fingers over her velvety folds, amazed at how wet she already is.
She gasps. Her head thumps the back of the mirror, her hair fans out like a halo, her eyes glitter with desire.
She meets my gaze, unblinking. "Fuck you," she whispers, voice low and guttural.
"You will," I promise, and mean it. "Count on it."
There's no room or reason to wait. I grip her ass, lifting, shifting so that the tip of me finds her.
I want to take it slow, to remember every fucking second, but my body isn't wired for that, not when it's this woman and this moment, when it's everything I've ever denied myself.
I want to ravage her, to remake her, to carve my shape into the parts of her Carter Whitford never touched.
She hauls me into place with both legs, locking her ankles at the base of my spine, and I almost lose my grip when she does.
She's so small compared to me, but she's pure leverage; she uses my body as a fulcrum to drive me into her.
The first thrust is an electric shock, too much and not enough, and I have to grab the wall behind her.
The cracked glass bites my palm, and pain spikes up my arm, goading me on.
I bottom out inside her, and we both freeze for a second, forehead to forehead, dripping sweat, the mingled sounds of our breath and our hearts pounding deafening in the small space.
Her nails dig into the back of my neck, scraping, and she bites my jaw, hard enough to send a jolt straight to my cock.
"Jesus Christ, Massimo," she breathes, but she doesn't tell me to stop.
"Tell me to stop," I rasp. I don't know if I can, but I have to say it.
"Don't you fucking dare."
That's all I need. Every motion is a confession, every thrust an apology or accusation.
I fuck her like I'm at war with her, like if I stop, we'll both fall apart.
She claws at my shirt, popping buttons, and I do the same to her blouse, yanking it open and freeing one perfect breast. I take her nipple in my mouth, biting until she gasps, then sucking the sting away with my tongue.
She arches into me, her whole body straining for more, skin slick with sweat and desperation.
For a brief moment, the colors of her tattoo catch my eye, sending a spiral of emotions through me, but I push them aside.
I want to break her open, to see what's left inside after all this time.
Her skirt is hiked around her waist, her panties bunched at one thigh, and I don't bother slowing down, not even when I feel the sharp edge of the mirror driving deeper into my palm.
Blood streaks the glass behind her, bright and vivid, but it barely registers.
All that matters is the sound she makes—pure need, guttural and exposed—I ram into her, over and over, taking her higher.
She's close, I can feel it. The way her hips jerk, the way her nails scrabble for purchase on my back, the way her breath comes in little shattered bursts.
I remember those. Everything about her comes back to me, making me question how I survived the past ten years without hearing them.
I reach down, thumb rough and sure on her clit, and she bucks hard enough I nearly lose my footing.
"Fuck—oh fucking hell—" she chokes, and I watch her come apart for me, face contorted, hair wild, lips bitten red and wet.
She tries to fight it. She does. But she's got nothing left; she surrenders. Her whole body convulses, and in the chaos, she buries her teeth in my shoulder to keep from screaming. I feel the bite. I want her to leave a scar so I can remember this every time I look in the mirror.
That's when I lose it. I slam into her, harder, faster, until I'm sure the elevator itself will break, the whole world will break, and it's only us left locked together.
The sight of her, ruined and perfect and exactly how I always wanted her, pushes me over the edge.
I come so hard the edges of my vision shrivel, and all I see is white, all I hear is her voice, my name, over and over.
We don't move. Not right away. I hold her, arms braced so I don't crush her; her legs are tangled around me, both of us gasping. I can't tell where her skin stops, and mine starts. If the elevator plummeted now, I'd still be inside her when we hit the ground.
Eventually, she kisses my jaw, softer this time, almost gentle. "You're bleeding, idiot," she observes.
I glance at my hand, red. Lines of wet on her neck, her cheek, probably more all over her. It doesn't matter. I swipe it away with my thumb, smear it down her throat, a mark I want the world to see.
She rests her head on my shoulder. For a minute, she lets herself be held.
The elevator is silent except for our breathing.
We collapse together against the mirrored wall, the web of cracks radiating from the spot where my fist had landed.
In the reflection, we're doubled and fractured and inseparable.
She runs her palm up my chest, slow, almost gentle, as if she forgot how to touch without leaving a scar. "If you ever leave me again," she says, "I'll murder you before you even see me coming."
"If you ever leave me again," I answer, voice hoarse, "I'll burn the world down finding you."
She leans in and mouths my throat, almost a kiss, almost a warning. I should ask what happens now. I should say something about Amauri, or about her husband, or about the sharks circling outside these walls. Instead, I stay right where I am, holding her, memorizing the weight of her against me.
I force myself to move first. Not because I want to, but because if I don't, I'll stay right here with her until the world outside this elevator becomes irrelevant, and that is a weakness I can't afford.
I adjust my jacket, ignoring the blood on my hand, the heat still humming under my skin, and the way her body seems to resist being let go even after I step back.
I don't apologize. I don't explain. Whatever just happened between us doesn't need language yet. It needs containment.
This shouldn't have happened before the truth was fully unfolded.
I know that. I crossed a line without knowing who put it there in the first place.
Bello. Whitford. Her father. Too many hands in a story that should have been simple.
I claimed her on instinct, on rage, on ten years of unfinished fire, and now there's no version of this where she walks away untouched by my decisions.
Or where Amauri does. That awareness settles into me, heavy and permanent.
I don't regret it. But I feel the cost forming.
The elevator hums back to life beneath our feet.
When the doors open, I don't look at her again.
If I do, I won't leave. And leaving—right now—is the only way I don't turn this into something that destroys us both.
I step out first, already recalibrating, already locking the pieces into place.
Bello will answer. Whitford will suffer.
The lies will be dragged into the light and burned down to the bone.
And when this is over—when every man who thought he could decide our fate is dealt with—there will be no more misunderstandings. Because she's back in my world now. And nothing that's mine ever leaves it, especially not twice.