14. Mia #2
It made me want to tell him everything. The journals. Sophia's voice cracking. The interview footage. The rage still burning behind my ribs like a coal I couldn't put out.
I turned around. He was leaning against the kitchen counter. Arms at his sides. Not crowding me. Not pushing. Just there.
My gaze found his and all I could see was the boy Ludo had written about. Nine years old. Standing on a chair to reach the easel. Paint on his tie.
Something behind my ribs broke.
I crossed the kitchen and put my hands on his chest. His heart slammed against my palms like it wanted out, like it was already mine. He went completely still, every muscle locked, but he didn’t pull away.
His big, warm hands came up and covered mine—paint still crusted under his nails, the faint bite of turpentine on his skin. He didn’t ask why. He just breathed me in.
He looked down at me, the kitchen dark except for that single bulb over the stove. Half his face was shadow, the green of his eyes gone almost black. “Mia.” Low. Rough. Like he was asking permission and begging me not to give it at the same time.
I didn’t answer with words. I slid my palms up the hard planes of his chest, over his shoulders, along the side of his neck, until my fingers framed his jaw. The stubble scraped my skin. His pulse beat wild under my thumb.
He exhaled, slow and shaky, the kind of breath that tells you a man is barely holding the reins.
Then his forehead dropped to mine. Eyes closed.
We stood there in the half-dark, breathing each other in—paint thinner, soap, warm skin, and the low electric hum of everything we’d been circling for weeks.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said, voice cracking. “I know.”
His hands found my waist, light at first, almost reverent, like he was afraid I’d shatter.
I felt that old hesitation again—the same careful pause I’d seen in the studio—but tonight it felt different.
Tonight I knew exactly where the bruises lived, and I wanted to kiss every one of them until they forgot how to hurt.
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Come here.”
He kissed me like he’d been starving for it. Slow at first, deliberate, each brush of his mouth a question he already knew the answer to.
Then the question turned hungry. His grip slid to my back, pulling me in hard, and the counter dug into my spine as I arched against him. I tugged the hem of his T-shirt. He broke the kiss just enough to growl against my lips, “You sure?”
I answered by yanking the shirt over his head. It caught on his chin; he laughed—low, startled, rough—and the sound went straight between my legs. I traced the lines of his shoulders, down his arms, across the broad, paint-streaked chest.
Cadmium yellow in the crease of his elbow. Raw sienna along his collarbone. My fingertips followed every streak like I was learning a new language written on his skin.
He watched me touch him, breathing slower, deeper, arms loose at his sides. Letting me. That trust—raw, unguarded—made something hot and liquid pool low in my belly.
I pressed my mouth to the paint on his collarbone and licked it. His breath hitched. “Mia.” Not careful anymore. Just raw. His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and he kissed me like he was done asking. Urgent. Deep.
Tongue sliding against mine, tasting like coffee and want. I grabbed his forearms and held on while the world narrowed to the slick heat of his mouth and the hard press of his cock already straining against his jeans.
We stumbled down the narrow hallway without breaking apart. His back hit the doorframe. My hip caught the wall. He laughed again, the sound vibrating into my mouth, and I swallowed it like I could keep it forever.
The bedroom was cool, sheets smelling of lavender and night air. He sat on the edge of the mattress, knees spread, and looked up at me—this huge, scarred, beautiful man staring like I was the only answer he’d ever needed.
I pulled my sweater over my head. His gaze dropped, dark and reverent, pupils blown wide. His fingers hooked the hem of my tank top, slow, patient, the way only a painter can touch—every inch deliberate. The fabric whispered off.
His palms skimmed my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts until my nipples tightened into aching peaks. Then his fingertips found the raised scar low on my back, the bullet’s ugly souvenir.
I stiffened. His eyes flicked up. “Not tonight,” I whispered, voice husky. “Touch me like I’m yours.”
He didn’t push. He leaned in and kissed my shoulder, then the hollow beneath it, then lower—open-mouthed, wet, hungry. Each press of his lips left a trail of fire down my sternum, over the curve of my breast.
When his tongue circled my nipple and sucked it into the heat of his mouth, I moaned, loud and shameless, fingers threading through his hair.
We fell back onto the mattress. His weight settled over me, braced on those strong forearms so he didn’t crush me, but I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him down anyway. I wanted all of him—solid, heavy, real.
His mouth found the spot where my jaw met my neck and sucked hard enough to leave a mark. I gasped his name—raw, broken—and felt his cock twitch against my thigh through his jeans.
“Stay with me,” I whispered against his ear. Not just tonight. Everything.
He lifted his head. Gold flecks in all that green, eyes locked on mine in the lamplight. “I’m here,” he rasped. “Fuck, Mia… I’m right here.”
Something in him snapped loose. The last wall crumbled. His hand found mine on the pillow, fingers lacing tight, and he kissed me like he was pouring every unsaid thing into my mouth.
Then he was moving—slow, deliberate, grinding his hips so the thick ridge of his cock dragged right over my clit through our clothes. I arched, whimpering, chasing the friction.
“Need you naked,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Need to feel every inch of you.”
Clothes came off in a frantic, laughing tangle—his jeans, my leggings, until there was nothing between us but skin and heat.
His cock was heavy and hot against my stomach, slick at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking once, twice, thumb swirling over the head until he groaned my name like a prayer and a curse.
He pushed inside me in one long, smooth thrust—thick, perfect, stretching me open so sweetly I saw stars.
We both stilled, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. “Wow, you feel so fucking good,” he whispered against my lips. “So wet. So tight. Like you were made for me.”
Then he started to move. Deep, rolling strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside me. Slow at first, savoring, then harder, faster, the slap of skin and the wet sound of him fucking me filling the quiet room.
I met every thrust, nails digging into his back, heels locked behind his thighs.
“Look at me,” he rasped when my eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you when you come.”
I came with his name on my tongue and his cock buried deep, clenching around him in long, pulsing waves that left me shaking.
He followed right after—hips stuttering, a low, guttural groan tearing out of him as he spilled inside me, hot and endless, whispering filthy praise against my neck: “That’s it, baby… take it all… fuck, Mia, I’m yours.”
Afterward he gathered me against his chest, arm heavy across my waist, heart still hammering under my cheek. I kissed the salt from his shoulder. His fingers slid through my hair once, twice, then stilled.
Outside, the mountain dark pressed against the windows, wind whispering through the pines. Inside, the only light was the amber glow of the reading lamp, turning our tangled bodies gold.
Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.
His breathing slowed. His arm was across my waist. Heavy. Warm. The mountain dark filled the cottage windows and the only light was the reading lamp on the nightstand, turning everything amber.
I stared at the ceiling.
The sheets smelled like detergent and lavender. Sophia's sheets. The ones she'd put on the bed the day I moved in. The day a five-year-old decided I belonged here and her father didn't argue.
Tony's chest rose and fell against my side. His arm didn't move. I listened to his breathing get slow and even.
I thought about what Sophia had told me. About the bruises on a sixteen-year-old boy's arms. About Angelina Marshall sitting in a boardroom while I grilled her on camera. About the pyramid scheme and the faked illness and the lawyers and the threats.
About how the world was smaller and more tangled than I'd ever imagined.
Tony shifted. His arm tightened. He might have been asleep. I couldn't tell.
I whispered it so quiet I wasn't sure I was saying it aloud.
"I'm going to destroy her."
I meant it. I meant it with every cell in my body. Every nerve. Every scar.
I didn't know yet how literal that promise would become.