14. Chiara #3
He gives me harder. Skin slap, wet filth. My head tips back and I nearly tip over the edge again before I shove his chest.
“Chair. Now. I set the pace.”
He pulls out with a groan, sits hard in the unused chair, and I straddle him at once, guiding him back into me myself. I sink down slow, then slam to the root, and his head hits the chair back with a curse.
“Yes… Fuck. Ride me.” His hands grip my hips but wait for my lead. Dominant praise, not control. “Chiara, you’re so beautiful.”
I ride him ruthless with palms on his shoulders. Knees braced on the chair. Rolling and dropping until the chair scrapes stone and my moans turn continuous.
He thrusts up to meet me only when I drag him closer, mouth open on my throat, my breast, murmuring filthy Italian praise broken by my name.
“Chiara… That’s it. Take what you need. Clench. Come on me. Let me feel you break while you’re using me.”
I shatter again with a sob, clamping hard around him, forehead to his. He follows almost immediately, groaning like it hurts, pulsing deep inside me while his arms lock around my back and he holds on through every throb.
For a long minute there is only breathing, candle smoke, and the storm.
Then the silence turns awkward.
I climb off him carefully. My legs feel unreliable and there’s wetness on my thighs.
We dress without looking at each other at first: trousers, sweater, his shirt buttoned wrong and fixed with unsteady fingers, my belt yanked too tight then loosened. I smooth my hair. He rights the chair. I shove the folder back into place like order can undo what we just did.
Internally I am wrecked. Externally I make my voice steady.
“Still just this once,” I say, not looking at him until I have to. “I’m still getting divorced. Don’t make that into something it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He stays where he is, giving me the space again. Kiss-bruised. Too honest. “It was yours. It stays yours.”
I nod once. My body still hums with him. I hate that it does. I gather my bag into my lap and sit on the edge of the table we used, waiting for my pulse to slow, waiting for the world outside this room to become real again.
Later, we hear Rosalia calling from the passage.
Lorenzo answers immediately and goes to the door. I gather myself before joining him, then hold a candle well clear of the wood while the groundskeeper works from the other side. It takes several attempts before the lower edge pulls free and the door opens.
Rosalia is standing in the corridor with one of the groundskeepers, who holds a heavy pry bar.
Her face shows relief first, then something more complicated as she takes in the two of us.
The candles on the table, the papers set aside, the careful space between us.
I know she can see that something has changed.
I don’t know how to tell her how little that settles.
Before we go, I take my phone from the table and check that my notebook is back in my bag.
“Your car was still in the courtyard, signora.” Rosalia’s eyes move between us, reading more than I want her to see. “When no one could find either of you, I started checking the older cellars.”
“It caught against the frame.” I put my copy of the financial statement in my bag and close the archive box on its shelf. Lorenzo collects the candles, leaving the papers clear of the flames.
“I can see that.” She looks at the warped wood, then back at me. Something hopeful flickers in her expression before she controls it. “The worst has passed. The roads should be clear enough to drive.”
“I should go.” I pick up my bag, checking the pocket with the greenhouse plans before closing it. “I want to get back to the cottage before dark.”
“Of course.” He steps into the passage first, making sure the damaged door stays clear of the opening. “I’ll walk you out.”
We climb the stairs together. At the top, my phone finally finds a signal.
The queued message to Rosalia sends, much too late to help.
I show her the screen, and she shakes her head.
“Good thing I asked the kitchen where you’d gone.
” Gray light filters through the windows; outside, the rain has softened to a drizzle.
Rosalia leaves us at the courtyard door without asking the question I know she wants to ask.
I stop at the courtyard door with my keys in my hand.
“I meant what I said downstairs. I’m still going ahead with the divorce.”
“I heard you.”
“Then don’t make me regret this afternoon.” I look up at him. “I wanted to kiss you. I need to be able to want that without you treating it as a promise.”
His face tightens, but he nods. “You didn’t promise me anything.”
He opens the door. I walk past him into the damp air, then hesitate on the way to my car. He stays where he is.
I get in the car and start the engine. I set the bag on the passenger seat. The signed permission is still inside it, and I still haven’t given him an answer.
I ease the car toward the courtyard arch. In the mirror, Lorenzo stays in the doorway, a dark figure against the gray stone.
I leave before I can ask him to come with me.