Chapter 35 MASSIMO #2
I don't bother with slow, not now. I slide both hands down her hips, taking her skirt with them, yanking it clean over her knees and off her legs in a single, practiced motion.
Her panties go next, black, delicate, thin enough to tear, but I make a point to roll them down inch by inch, my knuckles skimming her skin, letting her feel every moment of surrender.
She never takes her eyes off my face, like she's measuring the risk, like she's hoping I'll blink first. I don't. I bring the panties up to my nose, inhale her scent deeply, and close my eyes just for a moment to appreciate the sweetness of her.
Memories flood back in. They say they come the strongest with scent, and they aren't wrong.
I pocket the panties like I should have done back then.
Never again will I take one single moment with her for granted.
She's bared for me now. For a moment, I just look at her. Time hasn't taken from her. It's marked her. Claimed her in ways I wasn't there to witness. My hand slides down her stomach, slow, reverent, until I feel it. The faint ridges beneath my fingertips. She stiffens.
Her hand moves instinctively, like she wants to cover herself, a small, almost defensive motion. "Don't…" she murmurs, her voice barely there. "They're—"
She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. I know. I still her hand gently, my fingers closing around her wrist.
"No," I order.
My thumb traces the lines again. Not hiding them. Not ignoring them. Honoring them. "They're mine."
Her breath catches. I lower my head, pressing my mouth against her skin, right over the soft, pale marks. Slow. Intentional.
"They're beautiful," I murmur against her. "Every one of them." She lets out a shaky breath. "They're what your body did for me," I continue, in a rougher, emotion-filled voice, because fuck, she got those bearing our son. "For our son."
I kiss another one, softer this time. "They're not something to hide."
Her fingers slide into my hair, hesitant at first, then tightening. I move lower—and then I see it. The scar. Clean. Faint. But there. My hand stills. My gaze lifts to hers. She flinches before I even say a word.
"C-section," she explains wryly, like she needs to get ahead of it. "He… he didn't want to come out."
There's a fragile attempt at humor in her voice. It breaks halfway through. Something tightens in my chest. Hard. Violent. I lower myself without a word, pressing my mouth to the scar. Gentler than I've ever touched anything.
"That must have been terrifying," I observe against her skin.
She nods.
I feel it in the way her body shifts beneath me.
"Yeah," she whispers. "I… I've never wanted you by my side more than in that moment."
The words hit like a blade. Because I wasn't there. Because someone made sure I wasn't there. My hand fists at her hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to ground myself. Rage coils, already finding direction.
"They took that from me," I breathe, controlled. Deadly. "From us." I lift my head, meeting her eyes. "They'll answer for it."
Her breath hitches. I press my forehead to her stomach for a moment, closing my eyes, letting the weight of it settle. When I look up again, there's nothing soft left in me. Only certainty.
"You'll never be alone again," I vow. "Not for a single moment."
My hand slides back over her stomach, over the marks, over the scar. "Anyone who ever tries to take me from you again…" My jaw tightens. "They won't live long enough to regret it."
Her fingers brush my face, softer now, searching.
"I guess…" she whispers, "we both have our scars."
Something in me fractures at that. Not from weakness. From truth. I take her hand, pressing it flat over my chest, over the damage that never fully healed.
"Then we wear them together," I murmur.
And this time, when I kiss her, it isn't just hunger.
It's a promise I seal with a kiss before I continue my journey down her body.
She doesn't stiffen this time. This time, when her thighs tense, it's not embarrassment, it's anticipation.
She's waiting for me to lose control; she wants to see if I'll devour her, worship her, or both.
I kneel at the edge of the bed, spreading her legs with both hands, thumbs pressing into the flesh until she shudders.
Her hands fist in the sheet. She's breathing shallow, fast, her heartbeat is visible in the hollow of her throat.
I want to mark her, claim her, erase every memory of the bastard who put a ring on her finger.
But mostly I want her to know the difference, to know what it means to be truly wanted.
I duck down, my lips ghosting over her inner thigh.
My tongue leaves a wet line but never quite touches her where she wants it most. I savor the way her hips buck, the way her breathing hitches when I pause just shy of her heat, letting my breath tickle her until she curses me under it.
I smile against her skin. I pin her thighs with my elbows, anchoring her open and helpless, and then finally—finally—I taste her.
She's hot and slick and trembling, and the shock of it makes her head thump back against the mattress.
I listen for that little sound she makes, the gasp she tries to swallow, the one that always meant she was losing her grip.
I go straight for the spot, tongue working slow circles, relentless, patient, keeping her right at the edge.
Her hands are in my hair now, her nails are digging, yanking hard enough to make my eyes water. I don't stop.
She says my name once, then again, her voice sounds like it's breaking.
Her whole body arcs, either trying to break free or force me closer, I can't tell which.
I hold her down, sealing my mouth to velvety skin, my tongue is working harder, faster, finding every old map and every new place that makes her quake.
She starts to plead, the words chopped by moans, but I don't let up.
I want her wrecked. I want her ruined for anyone else.
She comes apart, finally, a shattering and beautiful thing.
Her thighs lock around my head, her hips try to jerk away, but I'm stronger, I hold her there and drink every second of it.
She sobs, a real sob, and then she's limp, spent, eyes closed, mouth open.
I don't let go. I keep kissing her, softer now, cleaning her up, gentling her until she whimpers from the sensitivity and pushes at my shoulders.
Only then do I rise; my heart is pounding. I shrug out of my shirt and kick off my pants, she gazes at me with that same gentle awe she had ten years ago, as if my scars are something beautiful she wants to memorize. "You've gotten bigger," she whispers.
I grin, slipping off my socks and shoes. "After all those hours in the gym, I sure hope so, sweetheart." I lean down and kiss her collarbone, fingertips grazing the curve of her hip. The tremor under my touch sends a thrill through me.
There's a moment when I'm so hard it hurts, when she's clutching at my back and drawing me down like she'll never let me go again.
I press her into the sheets, carefully and possessively all at once, and lower my weight so she feels every inch of me, real, scarred, and hers.
The way her thighs tense around me, the way she arches up and guides me, makes the years of violence and loneliness collapse in a blink.
I'm inside her before I know it, slow and tight, and the heat of her is making me dizzy.
She tastes sweet and salty at her throat, her moaning is ragged, and she's breathing me in like oxygen.
She wraps a leg around my waist, locking us together, and I drive deeper, impossibly slow, savoring the friction and the way her body fits mine. Each thrust is a negotiation, a question she answers with a tightening gasp or a shudder, her hands tangling in my hair, down my flank.
"You're mine," I claim her.
She meets my eyes, and even in the half-light I can see the tears gathering, unfallen, fragile as glass.
"I've always been yours," she cries in a thready voice, and my heart—my whole fucking chest—nearly caves in. I don't dare read into them what I hope they mean. Not now. Not yet. This is our moment.
I want to grind my soul into her bones, fuse our aching pieces together until we're something new.
But I hold enough back, enough control, to cradle her head and kiss her cheeks and smooth her hair away as I move.
Her walls flutter around me, grip and pulse.
Her moans get louder, reckless, and I watch her shatter.
When she comes, it's like a dam breaking.
She spasms around me and sobs out my name, nails digging so hard I'm sure I'll wear the marks for days.
I last a second longer—just long enough to see her break, to taste the salt of her tears as I press my mouth to her lips—and then I lose myself, emptying into her with a groan that sounds like her name and a curse in the same breath.
I collapse and gather her up, my arms a cage, a promise.
She buries her face in my neck, panting, her hair sticking to my lips and jaw.
I stroke her back, gently now, tracing the line of her shoulder blades and the rise of her spine, memorizing the shape of her in my arms. We stay like that, the two of us, until our breath slows and the sweat cools on our skin.
My heart hammers so loud I'm sure she hears it, and her hand presses there, palm flat, like she needs to confirm I'm real.
We lie tangled, bodies lined up seamlessly, and her pulse matches mine even as it gradually settles. I nuzzle her hair, nip gently at her ear, and she laughs, a real one, breathless and unguarded. She rolls her eyes, but holds me tighter.
"You okay?" I murmur, thumb tracing lazy circles over her hip.
She snorts. "I can't feel my legs. Is that normal?"
I grin into her neck. "You'll get used to it."
She shifts, sliding her thigh over my waist, pinning me. "I'd better not." Her mouth finds mine, hungry, and we kiss again, less desperate but no less intense. When she pulls away, her eyes are open and unafraid.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, brushing her fingers over the old scars on my ribs. "Be honest."
The question is unexpected. "Not as much as it did," I admit, and it's mostly true. My body throbs in a dozen places, but being with her dulls every ache. "You take my mind off the pain."