CHAPTER 42
ROXANNE
We stared at each other, breathless.
I dropped my dupatta, walked to him, and slowly peeled off his blazer—letting it fall like the last of my resistance.
I undid his shirt buttons one by one, letting my fingers brush his chest, breathing in his cologne. Like I was remembering him through scent one inhale at a time. It felt like a warm embrace.
I didn’t forgive him easily. I’d seen him walk out of the banquet hall that morning.
He had watched me dance—just watched. Like he hadn’t shattered me the night before.
Like I hadn’t been screaming at him with every step—see me, want me, fight for me.
But he didn’t. He just walked away. And somehow, that hurt more than the kiss.
Vihaan had said to me.
“He looked like a man trying not to fall apart. If you’re done with him, fine. But if you’re not… don’t punish each other just to prove a point.”
I didn’t answer. Later, at breakfast, my mother held my hand and spoke.
“You’re allowed to forgive someone who hurt you. Especially if they didn’t mean to.”
I hadn’t seen him around. I kept replaying the way Marcello looked at me like I was untouchable. Like he didn’t know how to reach me anymore.
So I went to his room through the interconnected door. It was unlocked. He was asleep, on his stomach like he had collapsed with exertion. He looked at peace—younger even. Less dangerous. Less guarded. Just a man who’d been through hell and didn’t know how to ask for softness.
I sat beside him. I slowly ran my fingers over his lips. I’d missed them. The way his lips perfectly synced into a kiss with me. The way they felt all over my body. I couldn’t stay mad.
Despite everything, despite how much he’d hurt me, I wanted him real bad. Wanted him to hold me, kiss me, obliterate me.
I brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead.
“You make me so angry,” I whispered. “And I still ache for you.”
He stirred, murmured something in Sicilian, but didn’t wake. I slipped out before he could see me.
When the fabric of his shirt parted, I froze.
A tattoo stretched across the left side of his chest, just above the heart—a quiet masterpiece etched into skin.
At its centre, a pair of eyes stared out from a fragment of weathered stone.
My eyes, captured in ink and memory. The lashes were soft, the lids heavy with knowing.
Around them, olive branches curved gently, forming the silhouette of an anchor—not rigid, but organic, as if nature itself had chosen to hold him still.
Two birds circled the anchor—one rising, one looping back—drawn in delicate motion.
Above it all, in slanted cursive, a vow hovered like breath:
I’ll choose you today, tomorrow, and for eternity.
And beneath it, in bold script: In aeternum tuus.
It wasn’t just a tattoo. It was a confession. I traced the script, fingers trembling.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
He looked at me, voice low. “Forever yours.”
“These?” I asked, tracing the eyes.
“Your eyes—my compass.”
I stood there, undone in the quiet, the moment already carved into me. The words lodged too deep for sound. My breath caught and my chest felt heavy. He kissed a tear that escaped my eye with a kiss.
“I want you near my heart always, la mia metà,” he said.
“What’s that? Mia metà?”
He rubbed his nose against mine. “My better half.”
That was enough—more than enough. I didn’t need anything else. The meaning sank somewhere deep beneath my ribs—past fear, past doubt—steady and irrevocable.
Whatever walls I still carried eased, one by one. I stayed silent, breathing him in, trusting the quiet to say the rest.
Then I traced his jaw, throat, the curve of his shoulder.
Like I was mapping my way back. I kissed him, pulling him closer, wanting to become one with him.
I kissed his neck, then chest—the tattoo, then circled my tongue over his nipple slowly.
He groaned as I tugged it gently between my teeth.
A sound I’d missed. A sound that made me crazier for him.
“I love how you moan,” I whispered against his lips.
He grabbed my hair, tilting my head as his other hand found my neck and grabbed it gently. He kissed me deep, pushing his tongue to the back of my throat. I let him in, circling his tongue with mine, groaning against his mouth as I twirled his nipples between my fingers.
Then I brought him to the mirror and fell to my knees.
I wanted him to watch me as my mouth worshipped him.
I unbuckled his belt, slowly unzipped his trousers, and pulled them down along with his trunks.
His erection sprang out and twitched. I had almost forgotten how big he was, but my body hadn’t forgotten how he felt inside and responded instantly.
I circled the tip with my tongue, tasting him—salt, heat, want. Then I slid him into my mouth, slow and deep, until he hit the back of my throat. My throat was sure to be hurting tomorrow, but I didn’t care. I wanted to feel him, taste him, love him.
I started moving my hand in rhythm with my head, bobbing down his shaft. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking him hard, my throat tightening around him as I fought to take more. I reached between his legs, smacking his ass cheeks, teasing his skin, cupping his sack slowly.
“Baby,” he said, voice strained. “I don’t want to come so soon.”
I could see through our reflection in the mirror that his head was thrown back, one hand fisting my hair. I looked up. His eyes met mine. I turned slightly, catching his darkened gaze in the mirror. I wanted him to see me taking him in. The way I wanted him. Watching himself through me.
“Fuck, Roxy,” he groaned. “That’s… so… hot.”
I didn’t slow down. I wanted to taste him. He held my head, pushing himself deeper into me. He groaned, spilling into me—hot, heavy, undone. I held him there, breath caught, throat full. His body trembled above me. He pulled me up, kissed me deep.
“I taste so fucking good on you,” he whispered against my lips.
I smiled, letting him peel my blouse off, until I was standing there in my bra. His fingers skimmed my skin like memory returning. Every touch felt deliberate, unhurried, as though this moment. I remained quiet, held by the weight of his gaze—steady, intent, sharpening as more of me was revealed.
His breath caught when he saw the lace. Like he’d been starving. Like he’d been waiting for permission to devour.
He bit my nipple through my bra, then bent down, pulling off my pants and underwear. He pulled me towards the bed and lay me down.
The sheets felt cool against my back, but his gaze burned. He didn’t rush. He just looked. Like he was burning the shape of me into memory. Like he needed this image to survive whatever came next.
He traced his hands along my waist down to my thighs and pulled my knees apart. I felt bare, exposed. Not just skin—soul, memory, ache. I closed my legs instinctively, from the weight of being seen.
“Let my eyes feast on you,” he growled. “Before my mouth does.”
He didn’t force them open. Just waited, letting me choose.
And when I did—when I let him see me—his eyes softened, then darkened again.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low and certain. “Every inch you offer. Every inch you doubt.”
He bent down and licked me slowly, his warm tongue sending jolts through my spine—sharp, electric—racing down to my legs like a storm gathering.
“You taste like sin and salvation,” he whispered against my core.
His mouth was fervent. His tongue, worshipful. He looked up at me, primal, like he wanted me to watch how he was undoing me. I clung to the sheets as his tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around the aching centre of me. Then he stopped.
I blinked, breathless. “Why’d you stop?”
My body was still reaching for him. “I was so close.”
“Not so soon, amore,” he said, smirking.
I pouted. He crawled up, peppering kisses on my stomach, then my breast, then my neck. Then he moved lower again—slow, deliberate. His mouth found me again. I let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a scream.
He slid his tongue into my pussy, release already building under my skin. He devoured me like I was his last meal. Like he’d been dreaming of this moment and now refused to come up for air.
I forgot how to breathe. Forgot how to pretend I didn’t want this. Forgot how to hold back.
His hands gripped my thighs, grounding me. And when I looked down, he was watching me—eyes wild, lips glistening, like he’d never tasted anything better.
I felt seen. Worshipped. Like I was reclaiming every part of myself he’d once broken. Like I was taking it back on my terms.
It was intense, more than I expected. More than I could handle. He reached up, pinched my clit, and I shattered—shaking, gasping, spilling everything I’d been holding back. He lapped it up like he’d been waiting for this.
When he finally rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, I pulled him into a kiss, tasting myself on him. I could never get used to the taste of me on him.
He hovered above me, eyes dark, breath ragged.
He didn’t say a word. Just looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense.
He pressed the tip of his cock against me.
Slid in just an inch. Then pulled out. Again.
And slid an inch in and withdrew again. I writhed beneath him, hips chasing his.
“Marcello,” I gasped. “Please.”
He smirked. “You’re so impatient, bella.”
He did it again—just the tip. My body clenched, desperate. I was soaked, aching, desperate to be filled.
I looked up at him, furious and feral.
“I hate you,” I breathed.
“Then hate me from the inside,” he growled.
And with that, he thrust in deep. I cried out—sharp, ragged. My body opened for him, welcomed him, claimed him. He groaned low and feral, as though he’d been holding back for a long time. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Not tonight.”
My body remembered him. The stretch. The fullness. The way he fit like he’d never left. He looked down, watching his cock slide out of me, gleaming with my wetness—then thrusted back harder. My back arched and he bit my nipple through my bra.
I wanted him to forget every woman who wasn’t me. Wanted him to remember—this was home. I was home. Wanted him to crawl inside me and claim my soul.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “You feel so—”
He thrust again. Harder. I almost bucked off the bed, matching his rhythm. He bit my shoulder, increasing his pace. I let out sharp breaths with every thrust. He lifted my legs to his shoulders, reaching somewhere deep; I could barely breathe.
“I can’t… I can’t…” I whimpered. “It’s too much. Too good.”
I felt myself unravelling. Walls tightening. Breath hitching.
“Marci,” I gasped. “Amore, I’m going to come.”
He paused, just the tip inside me, pulsing.
“What did you say?” he asked, head tilted.
“Marci? Amore?”
He smiled. “I love that name.”
Then he flipped me over, so I was riding him. Unhooked my bra, took my breast in his mouth.
“Say my name again.”
“Marci,” I moaned.
I looked down at him, his eyes locked on mine. I wasn’t just fucking him. I was claiming him. With every thrust. Every moan. Every gasp. I was rewriting the story he’d broken. And he let me.
He let me ruin him, love him the way only I could. I was reclaiming him. I was taking back every moment he’d stolen. Letting me remind him who I was—who we were.
He bit my nipple and rolled his tongue over, then bent his knees.
He thrust up hard. The rhythm of my hips matched his every stroke, clenching tight, milking him for his every restraint.
He dragged his mouth from my neck to my shoulder, biting and kissing, fusing us into one as he thrust faster and deeper.
And with that, we both came undone—together.
Our release ran down me onto him. It didn’t bother us. We were spent, suspended in that moment. If it were up to me, I’d let him stay this way forever. He fit me perfectly. Undid me gentle and rough—just the way I liked it.
I lay on top of him, chest to chest, breath tangled with his. His cock was still inside me—semi-hard, pulsing, warm. I could feel him everywhere. His heartbeat. His breath. His need. Like he was stitched into me.
My fingers traced the tattoo again, slower this time. The ink was still fresh. My initial. My eyes. The birds. The anchor.
In aeternum tuus.
Forever yours.
“When did you get this done?”
“After China,” he said, kissing my forehead.
I pressed my palm to his chest, over the ink, over his heart.
It felt like a vow. Like he’d carved permanence into his skin just to prove he wouldn’t leave again.
I kissed it slow and lay my head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he lazily stroked my back.
All the noise in my head disappeared, and only his heartbeat stayed, steadying my breathing.
I sat up suddenly, panic slicing through the haze.
“Shit. We didn’t use protection.”
He didn’t even flinch. “We never have,” he said, smug.
“Yeah, but this time I’m not on birth control. It messes with my hormones.”
He shrugged, lips twitching. “With the amount I’ve smoked, I doubt my swimmers are strong enough to get you pregnant.”
I narrowed my eyes. “It just takes one.”
He leaned up, kissed me deep. “I’ll take my chances.”
His voice joked, but his eyes had softened into something resolute—steady and certain. Like he already knew some risks were worth taking, and he wasn’t afraid of what might follow. His hand slid down between my legs, fingers teasing again.
“Ready for another round?”
I looked at him—really looked. His hair was messy, lips swollen, chest rising fast.
“Are we doing this all night?” I asked.
“I’ve missed too many months with you,” he murmured, kissing my shoulder. “I’m going to take my time getting them back—and I plan to feel every one of them.”
I realised… I’d missed more than his body. I’d missed the way he looked at me like I was his whole damn world. I just pulled him back down with me. Let him bury the months we’d lost. Let him remind me—again and again—that I was still his.
And he was mine.