27. Senna #2
I give him louder. He works my clit with fierce attention, fingers working me open, tongue relentless, and climax gathers hard behind my ribs, held since I slid the gold onto my finger.
When it hits, it hits hard - sharp and soft at once, relief and want and the terror of choosing crashing through me in the same breath.
I cry out, thighs clamping around his head.
He carries me through every last pulse until I’m trembling and spent, my fingers curling weakly against his scalp, the ring flashing every time my hand moves.
“Rocco - I need a second - please-”
He lifts his head, mouth shining, eyes wet at the corners. “Not today, amore. Not when you just put my ring back on and told me you’re staying.”
He shoves his own sleep pants down. His cock springs free - thick, hard, already leaking at the tip - and I reach for him before he can settle over me, wrap my fist around him, stroke once, twice, watching his face go tight with a want that looks a lot like gratitude and hunger braided together.
“Here,” I say. “Inside me. Now. I want to feel you while I’m still shaking. I want the ring on my hand while you’re buried in me.”
“Senna-”
“I said now. Don’t make me ask twice on the morning I chose you.”
He laughs - short, broken, loving - and then he’s pushing into me in one unbroken slide that fills me to the root and punches a sound out of both of us. We freeze, locked together, forehead to forehead, breathing hard in the morning quiet of a house that finally feels like ours again.
“Stay with me - right here.” he rasps. “Need to hear it-”
“More than okay.” My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. “Move. Fuck me like I’m staying. Fuck me like the divorce paperwork is burning. Fuck me like equal partners means you notice when I need this as much as you need music.”
“I notice.” He pulls back and thrusts back in, deep and deliberate.
“I notice everything now. The way you breathe when you’re close.
The way your cunt tightens when I hit that spot.
The way you look at me when you’re deciding whether to trust me.
” Another thrust. Harder. “Trust me, Senna. Let me earn it. Let me fucking earn it with my body if my words aren’t enough yet. ”
He moves.
Deep. Steady. Then harder, as the desperation catches up to the tenderness - his hips snapping into mine, the headboard knocking softly against the wall, our hands laced above my head so the ring sits against his knuckles with every thrust. He fucks me like a man who has been carrying a wedding band in his pocket for weeks and has finally gotten to put it back where it belongs.
I meet every thrust. I dig my heels into his back.
I tell him filthy soft things - how good he feels, how full I am, how I’m never taking the ring off again if he keeps fucking me like this - and he answers with Italian and English and my name broken into pieces against my mouth.
“I love you,” he gasps. “I love you, I love you, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so fucking glad you’re staying-”
“Then show me.” I bite his lip. “Harder. Deeper. I want to come on your cock with your ring on my hand and your apology written into me.”
“Filthy,” he groans, delighted and wrecked. “My filthy brilliant wife who writes songs about being invisible and then demands to be fucked like she’s the only thing in the room.”
“I am the only thing in the room.”
“You always were. I was just too stupid to look.”
He shifts, hooks my knee over his shoulder so he can get deeper, so he can hit that angle that makes stars burst behind my eyes, and his thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts.
The second orgasm builds from somewhere deeper - less sharp, more inevitable, the bodily version of saying *I’m staying* and meaning it with my whole terrified heart.
When it hits I come undone with his name and the ring pressing into the back of his hand and him so deep my ribs feel it.
He follows me over a handful of thrusts later with a groan that sounds like a vow, pulsing inside me, shaking, saying *I won’t* against my throat like a chorus he intends to repeat for the rest of our lives.
We fall still. Tangled. Breathing. The morning light has shifted across the bed. My song is probably still playing somewhere on a phone we abandoned. The ring is warm against my skin.
It’s not perfect. It’s shadowed by everything we’ve been through, everything we almost lost. But it’s real. It’s us.
I push at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back, and I climb over him - straddle his hips, the ring flashing as I brace my hands on his chest - and sink down onto his cock again before he’s fully soft, taking him back into the wet heat of me with a gasp that makes his hands fly to my waist.
“Senna - fuck - you’re going to kill me-”
“Equal partners,” I pant, rolling my hips. “You said you wanted that. This is what equal looks like. Me on top. Me setting the pace. Me fucking my husband in the morning light after I chose him.”
“Then take what you need.” His thumbs dig into my hipbones. His eyes are wet and bright and locked on mine. “Take everything. It’s yours. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, even when I forgot how to show it.”
I ride him slow at first, then harder, finding the angle that makes my vision blur, grinding my clit against him on every downstroke.
His hands roam - breasts, waist, the place where we’re joined - and he talks the whole time, filthy soft praise pouring out of him like a song he can’t stop writing: how beautiful I look with his ring on, how perfect my cunt feels, how he’s never taking a morning for granted again, how he’ll notice me every single day even when the music is loud and the career is demanding and the old patterns try to pull him under.
“I’m close again-” I gasp.
“Then fall. Fall on me. Let me watch. Let me feel you choose me with your body the way you just chose me with that ring.”
I come a third time - softer, almost luxurious, shaking apart above him while he holds my hips and thrusts up into me and follows with a broken groan, spilling into me again, saying my name like a prayer he’s finally learned the words to.
I collapse onto his chest. His arms come around me. We breathe. The house is quiet. Somewhere a scooter goes by on the street below. His heartbeat under my ear is steady and real and here.
“I need a minute,” I murmur against his skin. “Before the lawyer. Before the rest of the day. Just - this.”
“Take all the minutes you want.” His fingers stroke my hair. “I’m not moving. I’m not going to the studio. I’m not answering the phone. I’m staying right here with my wife until she decides she’s ready for the world.”
“Your wife,” I repeat, tasting it.
“My wife,” he confirms. “Who’s staying. Who’s terrifying. Who I love more than music, and I never thought I’d be able to say that out loud.”
Afterward, tangled together in sheets that smell like both of us, I trace patterns on his chest and think about what comes next.
“I need to call my lawyer,” I say.
“Right now?”
“Soon. To withdraw the divorce filing.” I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. “If we’re doing this, I want it to be official. I don’t want paperwork hanging over us.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Whatever you need. Whenever you’re ready.”
***
I make the call that afternoon.
My lawyer sounds surprised but not shocked - she’s seen enough reconciliations to know they happen, even in cases that seemed hopeless. “I’ll file the withdrawal today,” she says. “You should have confirmation within forty-eight hours.”
“Thank you.”
“Senna? For what it’s worth, I hope it works out.”
“Me too.”
I hang up and find Rocco in the kitchen, making coffee the way I like it - strong, with just a splash of milk. He hands me a cup without being asked.
“Done?” he asks.
“Done. She’s filing the withdrawal today.”
“How do you feel?”
“Relieved. Scared. Hopeful.” I take a sip of the coffee. “All of the above.”
“That sounds about right.”
We drink our coffee in comfortable silence, standing in the kitchen of the house that’s ours again - really ours, not just his with me haunting the edges.
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” he says eventually.
“What?”
“The comeback concert. It’s in three weeks.”
“I know.”
“I want you there. Not just in the audience - on stage. With me.”
I set down my coffee cup. “Rocco.”
“Hear me out. I’m not asking you to launch a solo career or become a public figure. I’m asking if you’d be willing to perform one song. Just one. The song we wrote together in the booth - the one that actually came from both of us.”
“In front of thousands of people.”
“In front of people who deserve to see who you really are. Not the wife in the headlines. Not the woman Fiorella tried to destroy. The artist.”
“I’ve never wanted that kind of attention.”
“I know. And if you say no, I’ll understand. No pressure, no guilt. But I wanted you to know the option exists.” He takes my hand. “You deserve to be seen, Senna. On your own terms.”
I think about it - the stage, the lights, the weight of all those eyes. The terror of being visible after so long in the shadows.
But I also think about the booth, our voices blending, the way it felt to make something beautiful together.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
My phone buzzes. A notification from my lawyer: Withdrawal confirmed. Case closed.
I show Rocco the screen, and he pulls me into a hug so tight I can barely breathe.
“We made it,” he says against my hair.
“We’re making it,” I correct him. “Present tense. We’re not done yet.”
“No.” He pulls back to look at me, his eyes bright. “We’re just getting started.”