18. Enzo
ENZO
A ria's breath stutters when I grip the back of her thigh and hook it around my hip.
The soft cotton of her underwear teases against my knuckles as I run my hand between her legs. She's warm. Wet. My patience stretches thin.
"Enzo," she breathes, already trembling, her voice cracked open with emotion. "I?—"
"Not now." My voice is hoarse. "Not when I've been starving for this."
I drop to my knees just long enough to slide her underwear down her thighs, slow enough that she feels it, fast enough that I do not give her time to think.
I rise again, dragging the fabric of her nightgown up to her waist, exposing the skin I've dreamed about for five years, skin I thought I might never touch again.
My belt comes undone with a metallic sound. She jolts in expectation. She knows what this is. What it means when I come apart like this. What it costs me to be rough, but not reckless.
She reaches for me, but I press her harder into the wall, chest to chest, her legs spreading with a tremble I feel all the way to my core.
I grip her thigh and hoist it higher. I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock slick against her folds. She gasps, her eyes going wide as I push in, inch by inch, forcing her open around me.
She starts to cry out.
I clamp my hand over her mouth.
Her scream dies in my palm.
I sink deeper.
Her eyes lock on mine, furious, wild, full of everything she never said when she left.
The pain, the pleasure, the fear, the desire. I see it all.
I feel her nails sink into my shoulders as I fill her, and her body clenches around me like she's trying to fight me off and pull me deeper all at once.
My forehead presses to hers. We are breathing into each other. Her tears mix with sweat. My lips brush her temple as I hold her against the wall and start to move.
Slow, at first.
Deep.
Dragging every inch out of her.
Her body shudders. She moans into my hand. I kiss her cheek. Her jaw. Her mouth, still covered.
When I lift my hand, she's sobbing, quietly, her tears born of too many emotions to name. "You left me," I murmur into her throat. "You burned your name out of the world. And you took mine with you."
She tilts her face toward me, her eyes filled with regret and heat and something fragile that shakes me to my bones.
I kiss her again, not gently.
I drive into her with more force now, the rhythm building, the slick sounds of our bodies echoing in the silence. She holds me like I'm the only thing keeping her anchored, and maybe I am.
Her climax hits hard. Her body arches. Her legs tighten around me, and she cries out my name like it's a lifeline.
I let go of her just long enough to lift her, still inside her, carrying her with me to the wide window that overlooks the dark rooftops of the village.
The night outside is black velvet and moonlight, the quiet kind that wraps around everything like a secret waiting to be told.
"Look," I say against her neck as I set her down, bending her over slightly so her palms meet the glass. "Look at what you've been hiding behind."
She does.
The reflection shows her lips parted, hair mussed, eyes glassy with pleasure and regret.
Her body curves against mine perfectly, like it was made for this, for me.
I grip her hips and thrust again, harder now, our skin slapping against each other with wet, hungry sounds that only heighten the need clawing through me.
"Tell me you didn't miss this," I breathe against her shoulder. "Tell me you didn't think about me every damn night."
She tries to answer, but it dissolves into a moan, her body clenching tight and wet around me, her knees shaking.
I slide a hand between her thighs and press harder, stroking her until she jerks and cries out, biting her lip as her whole body tenses beneath me.
My grip tightens around her hips, holding her in place as I bury myself deeper, slower, refusing to rush this. Not after five years, not when I thought I would never have this again.
She presses her forehead to the glass, breath fogging the pane, and whispers my name.
I reach around, slide my palm up between her breasts, over her chest, and then to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, just feeling her pulse hammer against my skin.
"You ran," I murmur, not because I need an explanation but because the words feel like ash in my mouth, sharp and bitter and old.
I keep reminding myself of this again and again, because now that I have her back, it's the last thing she will do.
I've made my mistakes.
I've lost her once, but never again, not if I can help it.
She nods against the glass. I feel the motion more than I see it.
"I had to," she says, the words trembling like the rest of her. "It wasn't safe. Not for me. Not for?—"
Her voice catches. She doesn't say his name.
I feel it now, the reason she kept him from me, the reason she ran in the first place.
I feel the guilt and the love and the sacrifice she built into that choice, and for a moment, it makes my chest ache with something close to fury.
I thrust deeper, and her cry silences the storm in my head.
"No more running," I tell her, pushing her hair aside and kissing the nape of her neck. "You do not run from me."
Her hand finds mine where I hold her steady at the hip, fingers threading through mine like she's afraid I will disappear if she lets go.
Her other hand presses flat to the glass, her body arching into mine like she's trying to climb out of herself and into me, and I feel her start to tighten, the beginning of that telltale tremble winding through her thighs.
"Enzo," she gasps, voice unraveling. "Please. I'm?—"
"I know." I bite the back of her shoulder, just enough to feel her shiver. "I've got you."
I drag it out, every movement meant to remind her what she once was to me, what she still is, and what she can never be to anyone else.
Her breath breaks with every push, soft gasps and stifled moans that make my blood run hotter, and when she starts to come, clenching around me with a cry that rattles the windowpane, I grip her tighter, drive into her harder, chasing the edge that has been haunting me for years.
My hand slides back to her throat, holding her steady, anchoring us both as the burn in my spine coils tight, as the pressure crests sharp and hard and merciless.
I feel her pulse flutter against my palm. I feel the way she melts against the glass, body limp, spent, utterly undone beneath me.
And still, I am not done.
My body pulls taut, all muscle and heat, and I groan against her shoulder, voice hoarse and low as I finally let go, slamming into her one last time as my release hits, every breath punching out of me in a rush of heat and satisfaction and something dangerously close to grief.
I spill into her with a sound I cannot name, and my forehead drops to her shoulder.
Our bodies are still joined, sweat cooling on our skin, hearts thundering in unison.
Outside the window, the city does not pause.
The night keeps spinning. But in this room, in this moment, nothing moves.
Nothing speaks.
Just the whisper of her breath.
Just the tremble of my hand as I slide it down her stomach and press it flat over the place where she carried my son.
We stay like that a little longer.
Then I draw back, just enough to ease out of her, just enough to feel the loss of her heat and the ache that follows it.
She turns slowly to face me. Her eyes are glossy in the faint moonlight, her mouth soft and swollen from the way I kissed her, and she looks at me like she has no idea what to say. I do not speak either. There is too much, and none of it fits the silence.
Instead, I reach for her hand and pull her toward the couch. We get our clothes back on, and for the first time in years, we sit. Just sit. After a long time, I speak. "I cannot kill you."
She sighs beside me. "Will you let me run?"
I angle my head at her, only slightly. "Do you want to?"