Chapter 43 Massimo #2
Her hands find the buttons of my shirt, and she fumbles a little—she always does—and I think about the first time she undressed me, the clumsy urgency of it. This is different. No hurry, no threat, no time bomb ticking down on the wall behind us. Just her breath, her hands, her skin.
"You're beautiful," I say. It sounds idiotic; it isn't enough. But she flushes at the words, her eyes turn soft and disbelieving, like no one's ever told her that before. Or maybe no one's ever told her and meant it.
"I'm a mess," she tries to laugh it off with a nervous edge in her voice.
"You're perfect," I correct, and slide my hands under her shirt to trace the curve of her waist, the silk-smooth skin warm beneath my palms. With one motion, I lift her and lay her back on the bed, following her down, every inch of me pressed to every inch of her.
Her mouth parts. She breathes my name. I lose track of time.
I worship her slowly. It isn't a word I ever understood—worship—but now I do.
It's the careful way I unbutton her blouse, deliberate, slow, watching her chest rise and fall with every snap.
It's the reverence in my lips as I follow the shallow line of her neck, the sharp clavicle, the hollow at the base of her throat.
She clings to me, nails digging into my shoulders, but she lets me set the pace.
I strip away everything between us, not roughly, but with purpose.
I want her skin on mine. I want the heat. I want to see her come undone.
When she's naked beneath me, I pause. I take her in. She tries to cover herself, shy and beautiful and aching, but I won't let her. I pin her wrists above her head and hold her there, my mouth at her ear.
"Don't hide from me," I whisper. "Not ever."
Her breath shudders out. She closes her eyes.
"I want to watch you," I tell her, lips just grazing her jaw. "I want to see what I do to you, Jenna. Every sound, every muscle, every fucking inch."
She bucks up against me, desperate, and her eyes fly open.
"Tell me what you want," I growl, and it comes out harsher than I mean it, but she only bites her lip and stares me down.
"I want you inside me," she whispers.
My hand moves between her legs. I find her already wet, so fucking wet for me.
"Is that for me?" I ask softly, my mouth brushing her skin, lingering at the place where her pulse betrays her. It's racing. For me.
"Always," she whispers, swallowing hard. "It's always been you. Only you."
I still.
The words echo in my head, too big, too dangerous to touch without breaking something. I lift my head slowly and meet her gaze. Her eyes are glossy, pupils blown wide, the green around them reduced to a thin halo like the last ring of a dying star.
"What do you mean?" I ask, even as something inside me already knows. It's been ten years. Ten long, empty years. Of course, she would have… lived. Loved. Found someone else. Anyone else.
Her throat bobs again. "Carter couldn't," she says quietly. "After the accident. The paralysis."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. A dark, visceral satisfaction flares before I can stop it, sharp, vindictive, ugly.
The bastard deserved that and worse. I'd hated him for existing in her life, for taking a place that was never his.
But the feeling dies as fast as it came. Because this isn't about him.
"What about others?" I need to hear it said. Need it to be real.
She shakes her head. Slowly. Absolutely. "No. Never."
Something inside me finally gives way. I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in like oxygen, like the only thing tethering me to the ground. Ten years collapse into a single moment, everything I lost, everything I thought was taken from me, everything I told myself to survive.
Nobody.
Not ever.
Her first. Then. And now. Always.
The realization breaks through me with a force I wasn't prepared for. Not pride. Not possession. Reverence. She didn't wait because she had to. She waited because she chose me.
"I thought I'd lost you," I whisper, the confession tearing out of me before I can stop it.
She lifts her hand to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. "You never did."
That's when I understand it fully, not as power, not as ownership, but as something far more terrifying and sacred. I am not one choice among many. I am the choice. It undoes me completely.
I ease into her slowly, watching her the whole time.
Her eyes never leave my face, and when I fill her, she moans, a helpless, hungry sound that shreds my composure.
It almost breaks me, how much I want her.
How much I want this. I move slowly, dragging it out, letting pleasure build in long, steady increments.
Every thrust is a promise: I'm not leaving, not running, not disappearing. I'm here for every second of this.
She meets me, stroke for stroke, her legs wrapping around me until we're impossible to separate, her hands fisted in the sheets, in my hair, on my back. I fuck her like I mean it. Like I need her more than air. And I do. I do.
"You're so fucking beautiful," I whisper into her mouth. "I want you to come for me, Jenna. I want to feel you come all around me. Can you do that?" My hand moves to cover the scar on her belly. "I'm going to fuck a baby into here."
She nods, frantic. Her body is wound tight, her thighs quivering, her eyes wild and begging me not to stop.
I slow myself, just for a second, pinning her with my hips and my words. "Look at me," I order. "Don't look away, not when you come."
She doesn't blink. I shift just enough to hit that perfect angle, and her body shatters.
She screams—quiet, desperate—and I catch her sound with my mouth, swallowing it whole.
Her pussy clenches so hard I almost lose it, and I fight to hold back, to give her every last second.
When she starts to come down, I press her wrists harder into the mattress, holding her there, helpless, open, mine.
I fuck her until I can't think, until there's nothing but heat and friction and the animal satisfaction of being wanted this much.
Everything else disappears. No past. No war.
No ghosts. Just her. Just this. The way she feels around me drags something primal out of my chest, something I buried the night I thought I lost her.
Mine.
The word pulses through me, raw and unrelenting. I move harder, deeper, chasing it, needing it, needing her to feel exactly what this is. What we are. She's not slipping away from me again. Not this time. Never again. The thought sharpens, turns from want into something darker. Something rooted.
I should have had this. I should have been there the first time. Every moment. Every breath. Every second of it. Her belly rounding with my child. Her hand reaching for mine. Her pain. Her fear. Mine to carry.
Stolen.
Rage coils tight in my chest, feeding the rhythm, driving me harder, until there's nothing left but instinct and need and the overwhelming certainty of what I'm taking back. What was always mine. And this time, this time, no one takes it from me. Not her. Not my child. Not this life.
When release hits, it tears through me, sharp and absolute, dragging a rough breath from my chest as I hold her close, grounding myself in the reality of her beneath me. Of us.
I stay there for a moment, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in, anchoring myself. Beneath the fading edge of it, the thought settles in, quiet, dangerous, immovable. Let it take. Let it root. Let it grow.
This time, I'll be there for every second.
My hand slides to her stomach, instinctive, possessive, lingering there. Guarding something that isn't even there yet.
But will be.
She wraps herself around me, holding me together while I fall apart inside her.
We stay like that for a long, silent minute, just the sound of our breaths and a slow, shared heartbeat. Eventually, I roll over and drag her on top of me, tucking her head under my chin. She's shivering. Not from cold, just the aftershock. I hold her close and don't let go.
For the first time in years, there's not a single thought in my head about power, or revenge, or anything except the miracle of having her here with me. She belongs to me. And I belong to her. I never believed in fate, but this feels close enough.
I wake sometime later, tangled in a mess of sheets and Jenna's limbs. Her hair is a wild snarl across my chest, one thigh hiked over my hip, her arm heavy and possessive around my waist. I'm hard again; the night's pleasure echoes through my body in slow, lazy waves.
Her breathing is deep and even. She's exhausted, and I can't blame her.
I kept her up for hours. I should let her sleep now, but I can't resist the urge to touch her again.
I slide my hand down her back, palm flat, slow.
She stirs, mumbling nonsense, but doesn't wake.
I keep going, tracing the curve of her ass, the warm crease of her thigh.
I want to wake her up gently, but I'm starving for her. I want her every way I can have her.
I ease her onto her back and settle between her legs.
She blinks awake, groggy and annoyed for half a second, then she sees me and her expression shifts, soft, languid, hungry.
Her hands find my hair, pulling me down for a kiss.
Only when she reluctantly releases me do I lower myself to feather kisses, gentle but insistent, along the inside of her knee, then move up to the warm, sensitive skin of her thigh.
She goes from sleepy to shivering in a heartbeat.
I want her to feel worshipped, adored, drenched in awe.
I want her to understand with every nerve ending she has that she's the only thing I will ever hunger for.
She's still sleep-fuzzy, blinking in the half-light, but I don't let up.
My hands bracket her hips, slow and careful, and I press my mouth between her legs, tasting the salt and heat of her even before she's fully awake.