Chapter 42 Renato
I'm not expecting her.
The empty space beside me when I woke up this morning.
One night to help her heal. One night where she let me worship her the way she deserved.
I tell myself it was enough. It has to be enough because it will never happen again.
That's when I hear it. The soft click of my door opening.
I sit up slowly, wondering if I’ve conjured her out of darkness and desperation. But no—she's real.
Standing in my doorway again in simple pajamas, looking at me with eyes that are less uncertain than they were last night.
"Camilla? What are you—"
She closes the door behind her, cutting off my question. Then she's moving toward the bed with more confidence than yesterday, no hesitation in her steps.
She chose to come back to me.
"I didn't think..." I trail off, not sure what I'm trying to say. That I didn't think she'd return? That I didn't dare hope?
"Don't talk," she says softly, reaching the edge of the bed. "Not tonight."
I nod, understanding.
Last night had words—necessary words about choice and control and healing. Tonight is different. Tonight is whatever this is between us that we're not ready to name in daylight.
She climbs into bed beside me, and I can immediately feel the difference from last night. She's not trembling. Not uncertain.
Like she knows what she wants now.
Her hand settles on my chest, palm flat against my heartbeat. I'm sure she can feel how fast it's racing, how her mere presence undoes every bit of control I have.
"Last night you gave me what I needed," she murmurs, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. "Tonight, I want to give you something."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." Her eyes meet mine in the darkness. "I want to."
The distinction matters. Everything with her is about choice now, about doing things because she wants to rather than because she's expected to.
"Okay," I say. "Whatever you want."
Her hand slides down my chest to my stomach, exploratory, curious. She's learning my body the way I learned hers last night.
When her fingers trace along the waistband of my boxers, my cock goes hard.
"Can I?" she asks.
"God, yes."
She removes them slowly, her confidence growing as she exposes me. When I'm fully naked, she just looks at me for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
"I want to touch you," she says. "The way you touched me. I want to learn you."
The raw honesty in her voice undoes me. This isn't about repaying a debt or fulfilling an obligation. This is about her taking back another piece of power—the power to explore, to discover, to give pleasure instead of just receiving it.
"Touch me," I tell her. "However, you want. Anywhere you want."
Her hand hovers above me for a heartbeat, fingers trembling, before she finally wraps them around my cock. The first touch is tentative, almost shy, her fingertips cool against the feverish heat of my skin.
I bite back a groan, my muscles tensing as she explores the weight, the length, the way my breath catches when she brushes her thumb over the sensitive underside.
She watches my face as she experiments, her eyes searching mine for any sign of displeasure. But there’s only pleasure, sharp and aching, coiling tighter with every stroke.
Her grip firms, her rhythm steadying as she grows bolder. When she circles me firmly, her palm sliding all the way down to the base and up again, I can’t hold back the low, guttural sound that escapes my throat. My hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more of her touch, more of the friction.
“Like this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, but there’s a thread of pride woven through it.
“Perfect,” I manage, the word torn from me. “Yes, just like that.”
Her thumb brushes across the head of my cock, smearing the slick bead of pre-cum in slow, deliberate circles. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pleasure so intense it steals my breath. I can’t suppress the sharp intake of air, the way my fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white.
She smiles—just a faint curve of her lips—but it’s enough to tell me she’s pleased with the reaction she’s drawing from me, with the power she holds in this moment.
“You like that,” she observes, her voice husky, her gaze locked on the place where her hand moves over me.
“Yes,” I admit, the word raw, honest.
She strokes faster, her fingers tightening just enough to make my vision blur at the edges. I reach out, my hand covering hers, not to guide or control, but to connect, to let her feel the way my pulse races beneath her touch.
Then she shifts, her body lowering, and I realize with a jolt what she’s about to do. My stomach twists, a knot of guilt and desire tangling together.
“Camilla, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “But I remember the training session. I remember how to do this.” Her fingers trace the length of me, her touch feather-light, sending shivers through my body. “And I want to do it because I choose to do it to you.”
The mention of those training sessions is a sharp punch to the gut. I remember every lesson, every command, every moment I stood over her, teaching her how to please a man she didn’t know, a man who wasn’t me.
Shame and guilt burns through me, hot and bitter, but before I can spiral, she wets her lips, her tongue darting out to moisten them, and then she takes me into her mouth.
All rational thought disappears.
The heat of her mouth is overwhelming, the wet slide of her tongue, the way her lips seal around me, creating a pressure that’s almost too much to bear.
“Fuck, Camilla.”
She starts tentatively, but it doesn’t take long for her to find her rhythm.
Her head bobs, her hair spilling over her shoulders, the strands catching on my fingers as I reach for her, not to push or guide, but to anchor myself in the moment.
To let her know I’m here with her, that this is about her as much as it is about me.
“Camilla…” Her name is a prayer on my lips. My free hand finds her hair, tangling in the silken strands, but I don’t pull, don’t direct. I just touch, my fingers trembling with the effort of holding back, of letting her lead. “Your mouth feels so fucking good.”
She takes me deeper, her confidence growing with every passing second.
The techniques I taught her are there, but she’s making them her own—adding her own pressure, her own rhythm, her own hunger.
I can feel the way she hollows her cheeks, the way her tongue flattens against the underside of my cock, the way her fingers curl around the base, squeezing just enough to make my hips lift off the bed.
I have to fight to maintain control, to keep from losing myself in the sensation, in the way her breath hitches when she takes me to the back of her throat.
This isn’t about me taking pleasure. It’s about her taking power, about her discovering what she wants, what she likes, what makes her feel alive. I need to let her lead, let her own this moment completely.
My hand suddenly tightens in her hair, and I tug her away. “Camilla, stop now or I’ll come in your mouth.”
When she pulls back, her lips are wet and swollen. “Was that okay?” she asks, her voice breathless, her hand still wrapped around me, stroking slowly.
I struggle for words, for anything that can capture the way she’s unraveled me. “You’re incredible.”
She settles beside me, her body warm against mine, her fingers still moving over me in lazy, teasing strokes. “I want more tonight,” she murmurs, her breath ghosting over my skin. “Not just this. I want… everything.”
I turn to face her, my hand cupping her cheek, my thumb brushing over the fullness of her lower lip. “Are you sure? Last night was your first time. You might still be sore.”
“I’m sure.” Her eyes lock on mine. “I’m less afraid now. You showed me it could be good.” Her fingers tighten around me. “I want to know what else there is. I want to feel it all.”
The directness of her desire undoes me completely. She's not asking for healing or replacement anymore. She's asking because she wants to. Because being with me like this brings her pleasure, brings her power, brings her something she's choosing to have.
"Come here," I say. “Get on top.” My fingers find the curve of her waist, pulling her closer until she’s poised above me, the heat of her skin radiating against mine. “Slide down on me. You control it this time, not me.”
She straddles me, positioning herself above me, taking her time.
"Take what you want," I whisper, my thumbs tracing slow circles on the inside of her thighs, feeling the tremor in her muscles. "Go at your speed."
Her fingers curl into the sheets beside my shoulders, her nails grazing the fabric as she lowers herself slowly inch by inch while I hold my cock steady. She goes slow, taking me bit by bit.
When she finally sinks down, taking me all the way inside her, we both gasp—her lips parting, my head tipping back into the pillow. The sound she makes is raw, almost surprised.
"Okay?" I ask, my hands sliding up to rest on her hips. The skin there is soft and warm under my palms.
She exhales shakily, her hair falling forward to curtain her face. "More than okay," she murmurs, and then she begins to move. “But damn you feel so big this way.”
It’s slow at first, exploratory. She finds her rhythm, her body learning mine, each roll of her hips deliberate, each breath a little louder, a little more unsteady.
The air between us is thick with the sound of skin against skin, the creak of the bed, the wet heat of her breath against my neck as she leans down, her lips brushing my jaw. I reach up and cup her breasts, rolling and tugging the hard nipples.
I let her lead, let her take what she needs. My hands stroke her ass, her thighs, but I don’t rush her. I don’t push.
I just watch, my own breath coming faster as her movements grow bolder.
"You’re so beautiful like this," I tell her. The words feel inadequate as I watch her ride my cock, her lashes fluttering as she arches her back, her hair spilling down her back.
She bites her lip, her nails scraping lightly over my chest, and then she’s moving faster, her breath coming in sharp little gasps. I guide her hips with gentle pressure, helping her find the angle that makes her whimper, but I never take over.
This is all her.
Her head falls back, the line of her throat exposed. The sound she makes is half my name, half something wordless, a cry that fills the room, that vibrates through me.
I can feel her tightening around me, her body trembling as she comes apart, her fingers clutching at my shoulders like I’m the only thing keeping her from floating away.
"That’s it," I murmur, my own control fraying at the edges. "God, you’re so fucking gorgeous when you come."
And then I’m there with her, the world narrowing to the feel of her, the sound of her, the way her name tastes on my lips as I come deep inside her.
Afterwards, she doesn’t pull away. She stays draped over me, her cheek pressed to my chest, her breath warm against my skin. The room is quiet except for the sound of our hearts slowing, the occasional rustle of sheets as we shift closer.
Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, her touch light, almost absentminded. I run my hand through her hair, untangling the knots, smoothing it down her back. Neither of us speaks. There’s no need.
Last night, I gave her what she needed.
Tonight, she’s given me something I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.
And as she settles deeper into my arms, I realize she’s no longer the only one healing.
Eventually, she pulls away. Back to her room before dawn, maintaining the lie that this doesn't exist in daylight.
"Camilla?" I catch her hand before she can leave.
She pauses, looking back at me in the darkness.
"Thank you," I say simply. "For coming back. For choosing this again."
"Don't thank me," she says softly. "I'm doing this for me."
"That's why it means so much."
She's quiet for a moment, then leans down and kisses me softly. It's different from the urgent kisses earlier—this one is gentle, almost tender. A promise, maybe. Or an acknowledgment.
Then she's gone, slipping out into the pre-dawn darkness, leaving me alone with sheets that smell like her and the devastating knowledge that this is becoming something more than healing.
Something neither of us is ready to name but both of us keep choosing.