Lucia #2
He cuts himself off with a moan, twisting his hips just enough to make me gasp loud and graceless into the bare inch of air between us. Every inch is a war. He’s stubborn, I’m desperate, and both of us are greedy as hell.
“Just like that,” I pant. No pride, no filter. His hand curves under my jaw like an anchor to whatever is left of my self-control.
He holds me here, between the want and the reward, with a patience I could never fake.
Every muscle in my body is knotting under his calm, measured push, and when he finally bottoms out, I lose the fight against the noise in my throat.
It’s not a scream, but it’s not a fucking secret, either.
His laughter is hungry and close to my ear.
“Knew you could take it.”
I’m dizzy, nails carving wild hieroglyphs down his arms, trying to make him move and terrified of what will happen if he does. But he waits. He wants me to say something, I realize, even as I’m still blinking white sparks off my lashes. Wants words, not just the wrecked sounds spilling out of me.
Maybe he’s waiting for “more,” maybe he wants me to beg, but all I can manage is, “Don’t fucking stop.” So I say it again, and again, until even my own name sounds like a stranger’s.
He’s trembling against me—barely, but I can feel it—and the way his breath shivers through my hair tells me he’s just as close to feral as I am. He bends down, the scratch of his stubble lighting my whole jaw on fire, and says right into my ear, “Look at you.”
It isn’t a question, or even a command. It’s just a fact. I am all over him, exposed and hungry and ruined. He can see it, and he’s not going to let me pretend otherwise.
His hands slide down my hips, blunt fingertips digging into muscle like he’s worried I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. The friction is unreal. Raw. Every drag and slide is tight enough that the edges blur, every slow retreat a mythic pull, a wound.
Our bodies lock and tangle, sweat slicking every surface, and there’s no way to breathe it out, only let it choke and fill me. Him, the moment, the memory of this already seared into my neurons forever.
He moves when I’m sure I’ll break if he doesn’t.
Not a gentle start, not slow, just this pure, animal rhythm that threatens to unravel everything I am.
I try to arch up, to catch the pace, but he’s holding me down, setting the speed, dragging every curse and plea out of my mouth because I can’t keep up. He knows it, too.
Masochist, I think, but the word is for me. I want this, crave it, hate how much I crave it.
The pace is criminal, impossible. The room dissolves, and all that’s left is that animal repetition, friction building until the world’s nothing but skin and heat, my body blurring at the seams where he fits inside me.
My brain loops back on itself, electrified by sensation and the sick, miraculous knowledge that I am not, and will never be, enough. Not for him, not for this, not for anything. It kills me, and it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.
My thighs are shaking, but I force myself up to meet him every time, desperate for the next hit.
We are both ruined, the slap and drag of bodies a wild metronome, but he still won’t give me the edge.
He pushes me right to it, backs off, pushes again, leaves me hanging by a hair.
I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming.
“That’s it,” he says, dark with pleased approval. “Shake for me. Scream.”
When the second wave hits—sharper, deeper, his mouth on mine, catching every sound I make—his hands steady me like he planned the entire thing from the start.
When the world finally settles, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“I love you.”
The words exit him like a gunshot. But it doesn’t hit hard. I feel soft, adored, and seen.
Plus, I feel the same way.
“I love you, too.”
Saying it feels like stepping onto solid ground after years of water. Like my body finally understands what it’s been bracing for.
He exhales, long and slow, and I feel it ripple through him. Relief. Not victory. Relief.
We stay like that for a while before shifting, untangling just enough to breathe properly without breaking contact. He pulls me with him when he settles back, my head finding its place on his chest like it’s always known where to go.
His hand rests on my hip. Not possessive. Present. His fingers start tracing absent shapes there. Circles. Lines. Nothing that means anything except I’m here. I listen to his heartbeat slow under my ear. Feel my own follow it, like it’s tired of beating alone.
The room is quiet. Not tense-quiet. Safe-quiet.
“What happens next?” I ask eventually.
He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers keep moving, thoughtful now, like he’s choosing truth over reassurance.
“We keep Nico safe,” he says. “We win the custody case. We figure out the rest as we go.”
I lift my head just enough to look at him. “That simple?”
His mouth curves, not a smile, exactly. Something realer. “That complicated.”
I laugh softly, because of course it is. Because nothing worth keeping has ever been easy. But for the first time, that doesn’t feel like a threat.
I settle back against him, cheek warm against his skin, and close my eyes. Outside these walls, the estate is still locked down. Men are still watching. Threats are still circling, patient and ugly. The world hasn’t softened just because we did.
But in here, in this bed, with his hand steady on my hip and his heart under my ear, I feel safer than I ever have in my entire life.
And I know, without him saying it, that he feels it, too. Like he’s found something he didn’t even know he’d lost.
And this time, neither of us is letting go.