Chapter 13
Pietro
Ididn’t let go of her hand, not even when the silence stretched for longer than was strictly polite.
Her skin was warm, and the blood pulsed under it, strong and fast. Her pulse.
I watched it beat there, at the inside of her wrist, watched the way the vein flashed blue and then disappeared again.
I thought: I want to leave a mark there. I want her to remember this.
She watched my face, searching it for something.
I think she saw it, because she didn’t smile, didn’t joke, just squeezed my hand tighter and then let her fingers go loose, surrendering the whole weight of her wrist to me.
If she knew what it did to me, she’d have been cruel to keep it up, but she just waited.
I stood, slow, letting her hand slide up until our arms were straight, and only then did I pull her up to stand with me.
I heard the scrape of her chair, the shuffle of her socks on the tile.
I drew her a step closer so we stood almost touching, close enough that the air between us felt different, charged.
I lifted her hand to my mouth. I pressed my lips to the inside of her wrist, exactly where the pulse beat the hardest. Her skin was clean, smelled faintly of soap and that sharp winter air from earlier.
I didn’t just kiss it. I let my mouth rest there, inhaled, and then exhaled slow, so the heat of my breath would leave something behind.
I felt her go tense, then shiver, not from cold. She was watching my mouth.
I said, “You have no idea how much I want you. More than anyone has ever wanted anything.”
She didn’t answer, just pulled in a tight breath and let it out. Her free hand balled up, then relaxed. She didn’t step back. She didn’t break.
I lowered her hand but didn’t let go. I brought her with me, every step, down the short hallway.
The apartment was all shadows now, the only light from the kitchen lamp, yellow and low, and the windows reflecting more of us than the city outside.
Our footsteps sounded louder than they should.
The carpet was rough under my feet, but I could feel the heat of her through the air, every inch of her that wasn’t touching me was a problem I meant to solve.
I didn’t kiss her, not yet. I wanted the walk to be a prelude. I wanted her thinking about every place my mouth could go, before it ever got there.
When we reached the bedroom, I let go of her hand only to open the door. She waited on the threshold, watching me, her eyes darker than usual. I gestured her in. She obeyed.
I closed the door behind us. There was no sound at all, not even from the street. Just the soft drag of her breath.
She turned, stood in the middle of the room and looked at me with her face open, every wall down. I’d never seen a woman look at me like that, like she already knew what came next and wanted every second of it.
I stepped in, slow, letting the tension stay.
I said, “I’m going to take care of you now.”
The words came out quiet, but they filled the room. My voice was low, a deep register, a commanding tone. She nodded, just once, like she was ready for anything.
I took a step closer.
She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for my cue. She didn’t fidget, not the way some women did when they wanted to play at shyness. She just watched me, her mouth slightly parted, eyes flat and shining.
I reached out and caught the hem of her sweater with both hands. Pulled it up slow, bunching the fabric at her ribs, exposing the white T-shirt underneath. I didn’t rush. I wanted her to feel every inch of it—how careful I was, how this was about attention, not just need.
But I felt a pounding inside me—impatience. Some part of me knew how important this was, as though I would never forget what was about to unfold.
The sweater caught at her elbows. She raised her arms for me, let me peel it up and over, let her hair go wild with static.
She blinked, then ran her hands through the mess, like she didn’t care how it looked.
I stood with the sweater in my fists, breathing in her heat, her smell, the faintest ghost of her shampoo.
Underneath, she wore a bralette—pale blue, thin, nothing like the armor most women layered up for men. The lines of her body showed through, the edge of her breast soft under the mesh, her nipples already hard. She didn’t look away.
I said, “You are so beautiful, Angela.”
She snorted, not mocking, just surprised. “You have to say that. It’s in the contract.”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t have to say anything I don’t want to. It’s true. I mean it.”
She smiled, but it barely moved her face.
It was in her eyes. She let me unbutton her jeans, slow, thumb sliding under the top button, then the zip, then the slide of denim down her hips.
She didn’t move to help, just let me work her clothes down her legs, bending one knee and then the other to step out of them.
She stood there in the bralette and underwear, socks still on, hair a wild mess. She looked at me like she was waiting for the next instruction, not nervous, just tuned to the moment.
I cupped her cheek with my palm, thumb at the hinge of her jaw.
I wanted to taste her, but I waited. Instead I hooked a finger under the band of her bra, traced the line from sternum to shoulder, then slipped the strap off.
It fell down her arm, useless. I took the other side, did the same.
Then I reached around and unhooked it, careful, both hands at the clasp.
The bra sagged, then fell, exposing her completely.
She didn’t flinch. She just let me look at her, let me catalog every inch of skin, every change in her breathing.
I traced my thumb over her nipple, slow, barely touching. It peaked under the pad of my finger. She sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for me to do it again. I did, this time pinching, rolling, testing the line between pleasure and pain.
She leaned in to me, just a little. I took her by the hips and walked her backwards, inch by inch, until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sat, then let herself fall back, one arm up over her head, the other bracing her weight.
I knelt at the edge of the bed, both hands on her thighs. Her skin was pale, blue veins showing at the insides, a faint scar near her left knee. I pressed my mouth there, and her leg jerked, involuntary.
“Ticklish?” I said.
“Only when you do that,” she said, and she laughed—a real one, bright and sharp. I liked it more than I should have.
I dragged my hands up, over the curve of her hips, over her belly, up her sides. I watched her watch me. She didn’t blink.
I bent over her, slow, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other braced next to her shoulder.
I let the moment sit there between us, just a breath apart, long enough that she tilted her chin up looking for me.
Then I kissed her—finally, really kissed her.
Not soft, not polite. Full-mouthed and unhurried, my lips pressing hers open, my tongue sliding in slow and deliberate.
She opened for me right away, eager, her mouth hot and sweet.
I felt her exhale into me, that first release, like she’d been holding it since we walked in.
I deepened it, tilting her head back with the hand behind her neck, taking my time with her mouth the way I intended to take my time with everything else.
She made a small sound against my lips, barely a sound at all, more like a vibration, and I felt it go straight through me.
She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me down. Our bodies pressed together—my shirt rough against her bare chest, the heat of her skin going straight through me. I deepened the kiss, let my teeth drag her lower lip, let her feel the want in me.
I broke the kiss, my lips trailing a path of heated breaths down her jawline, feeling her pulse quicken beneath her skin.
I lingered at the base of her throat, where her heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird, and placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss.
I bit down gently, just enough to make her gasp, her body arching into mine.
Her moan was low and throaty, a sound that sent a surge of desire through me.
I moved lower, my mouth exploring the delicate hollow of her collarbone, tracing its length with my tongue.
Her skin was warm and yielding, inviting me to linger.
I could feel her breath hitch as I kissed the curve of her shoulder, my hands sliding up to cup her breasts.
They were soft and heavy in my palms, her nipples already hardening against my touch.
I took one nipple into my mouth, slowly rolling it between my teeth, feeling it peak and harden.
I sucked gently at first, then with more insistence, drawing out a gasp from deep within her.
Her nails dug into my shoulders, her body writhing beneath me.
I took my time, savoring the taste and feel of her, the way her breath hitched with each flick of my tongue.
“Fuck,” she breathed. I felt my cock twitch as the fog of lust clouded my brain. I wanted her so badly—so insanely badly. I could barely handle it.
I moved lower, kissing my way down her sternum, her belly, to the waistband of her underwear. I paused, looked up at her.
She was breathing hard, eyes glassy, hair wild on the pillow.
I hooked my thumbs under the band, dragged the underwear down her legs, and tossed it aside. She was soaked—her inner thighs slick, the lips of her pussy shining. I inhaled, slow, letting the smell of her fill my head.
I kissed her thigh again, closer to the edge this time. She whimpered, hips rolling up off the bed.
“You’re shaking, baby girl,” I said.
She covered her face with both hands. “I’m embarrassed.”
I laughed. “No reason for it.”
She dropped her hands, then grabbed a fistful of my hair. “Shut up and do it, then.”