22. Senna #3
“Demanding-”
“Desperate. There’s a difference. We’ve covered this.”
I laugh and then the laugh breaks into a moan as he hits that angle just right, and the second orgasm rolls through me deeper than the first - less sharp, more inevitable, joy made flesh.
I shatter laughing his name into his mouth, nails in his back, warm leather and wildflowers in my nose.
He follows me over with a groan that sounds like a song, pulsing inside me, burying his face in my throat.
“Wait.” I push at his chest gently, still smiling, still wrecked. “Outside. Against the car. I want the air. I want to feel the evening on my skin while you fuck me.”
His eyes go wide, then darker. “You are going to kill me.”
“Not before the gala. After that, no promises.”
We tumble out of the back seat into the golden light, half-dressed and shameless.
The hedges rise around the parking space like a private room made of green.
Rocco turns me, presses my palms to the warm hood of the rental car, and shoves my skirt up again from behind.
I laugh into my forearm - delighted, filthy, free - and then the laugh becomes a moan as he sinks into me in one smooth thrust, deeper at this angle, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave the kind of marks I’ll want to find tomorrow.
“Still good?” he rasps.
“Better than good. Move. God, Rocco, move-”
He moves. The hood is hot under my palms. The hedges rustle.
Somewhere a dog barks in a distant yard and neither of us cares.
He fucks me from behind with a rhythm that’s pure celebration - hard, playful, punctuated by the slap of skin and my helpless sounds and his muttered stream of Italian filth that I only half understand and fully feel.
“This cunt,” he groans, bending over my back, mouth at my ear. “This perfect fucking cunt I’ve been dreaming about for three days. You have no idea. Every kilometer. Every song. I wanted to pull over and do exactly this.”
“You should have.”
“I’m doing it now.” His hand snakes around to find my clit again, circling. “One more for the road. For us. For every night we wasted being careful.”
“I’m going to-” The words break. “Rocco-”
“I know. I’ve got you. Let it happen.”
The third orgasm is softer, almost luxurious, rolling through me while I’m bent over a rental car in the Italian countryside with my husband’s cock deep and his mouth on the back of my neck.
I come shaking. He follows with a broken sound, holding my hips flush to his, spilling into me like a man who has finally stopped being afraid of wanting too much.
We collapse together against the side of the car afterward, laughing breathlessly, fixing clothes with clumsy hands, stealing kisses between buttons and zippers. My underwear is somewhere in the back seat. His shirt is inside out. Neither of us fixes it properly.
“Cottage,” he says eventually, forehead against mine. “Shower. Actual bed. And then I’m going to do that again, slower, for hours, until you forget every reason you ever had to leave.”
“Big talk.”
“Watch me keep it.”
We stay tangled in the back seat, half-dressed and wrecked and grinning, the cottage still twenty steps away and completely irrelevant.
“We should go inside,” he murmurs eventually, not moving.
“In a minute.”
“The bed is probably very nice.”
“The back seat is nicer.”
He laughs against my skin. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I love you.” He lifts his head to look at me, soft now, the filthy banked into something tender. “I love you, and I love this, and I love that we just fucked behind a stone cottage like teenagers who couldn’t wait. I want a hundred more days like this. Windows down. Bad pop songs. You.”
“You’ll get them.” I trace his mouth with my thumb. “We’re taking back our story, remember? Starting with this. Starting with us.”
The back seat isn’t comfortable, but comfort isn’t what I’m looking for. What I’m looking for is him, solid and real and here, and when his hands find my hair and my heart beats so fast I can barely breathe, I let myself believe that we might actually make it.
***
We arrive in Florence the following afternoon, road-weary and sun-kissed and holding hands across the console like teenagers.
“So,” Rocco says as we enter the city limits. “The gala.”
“The gala.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“No.” I squeeze his hand. “But I’m done hiding. I’m done letting Fiorella control the narrative. We’re going to walk in there together, and we’re going to show everyone that her lies haven’t broken us.”
“And if people don’t believe us?”
“Then we’ll make them believe us.” I turn to look at him. “Together.”
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.
“Together,” he agrees.
The city spreads out before us, familiar and foreign all at once, and I think about everything that’s waiting - the gala, the confrontation, the reckoning that’s been building since the day Fiorella walked into our house and started stealing pieces of my life.
“Let’s take back our story,” I say.
Rocco smiles.
“Let’s.”