Chapter 19 #2
"I hate that I spent every day loving you when I could have seen my father one last time.."
"Good." He bites down on my shoulder, hard enough to make me gasp. "Keep it coming."
"I can’t believe I was so selfish," I whisper, and fresh tears leak from my eyes. "I hate myself so much for—"
He kisses me again, cutting off the spiral of panic with his mouth, and this time when I kiss him back it is not just rage and desperation—it is relief.
His hands slide down to my hips, grinding me against him, and I moan into his mouth, my fingers threading through his hair and tugging the way I know he likes.
“Don’t you ever say you hate my girl,” he growls against my lips. “Understand me?”
I shake my head, the movement desperate, my cheek scraping against his stubble. “But I--.”
“No, never, because my girl is perfect. She is pure love, and no one could ever hate her, understand me?” His hand snakes between us, fingers deftly popping the button on my jeans.
The rasp of the zipper is obscenely loud in the quiet gym, and my breath hitches.
He shoves the denim and my panties down my thighs in one rough, efficient motion, the cool air of the room kissing my exposed skin.
I feel so open, so vulnerable, and yet a bolt of pure, liquid heat shoots straight to my core.
He fists a hand in the fabric at my hip, holding me steady, and with his other hand, he frees himself from his own jeans. I feel him, hot and heavy and thick, against my bare thigh. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice low and rough.
I force my eyes open, meeting his. The storm is still there, but it’s mingled with a heat that steals the air from my lungs. In his gaze, I see my own reflection—a mess of tears and desire and shattered grief.
“This isn’t just fucking,” he says, the words a vow. He guides himself to me, the blunt head of him pressing against my wet, aching entrance. “This is me claiming you. This is you letting me in. All the way in. The good, the bad, the hate, the guilt. I want it all.”
I can only whimper, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
He pushes forward, an inch, a slow, burning invasion that makes my eyes roll back. I’m so tight, the stretch is exquisite, a bright, sharp pain that bleeds instantly into a deep, throbbing fullness. My mouth falls open on a silent cry.
“Breathe, Rosa,” he murmurs, his own breath ragged against my ear. “Breathe for me.”
I suck in a shuddering gasp as he sinks deeper, another slow, deliberate inch.
The friction is unbelievable. Every nerve ending is alight.
He fills me completely, a perfect, punishing fit that seems to reach a place inside me that’s been hollow and cold for weeks.
I feel stuffed, owned, connected to him in the most primal way possible.
He stills, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Our foreheads touch. I can feel the sweat beading on his skin.
“Now tell me what you feel,” he whispers.
“You,” I choke out. “I feel you. Everywhere.”
A groan rips from his throat. He pulls back, almost all the way out, and the drag is a sweet torment. Then he drives back in, harder this time, slamming me against the wall. A choked sob of pleasure escapes me.
That’s it. That’s the feeling. The sharp slap of my back against the cinderblock, the solid weight of him pinning me, the relentless push and pull that scours me raw. It doesn’t erase the pain—it meets it. Meets it thrust for thrust.
He sets a brutal, possessive rhythm. His hips piston against mine, each powerful surge wringing a new sound from me—a gasp, a moan, a broken cry. My legs lock around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him on, demanding more.
“Is this what you need?” he grunts, his mouth hot on my neck. “This? To feel something besides the fucking hole in your chest?”
“Yes,” I sob. “God, Gabriel, yes.”
He shifts his angle, and on the next deep plunge, he hits a spot that makes my vision whiten. A sharp, electric jolt of pure pleasure arcs through me, so intense it borders on pain.
“There,” I gasp. “Right there.”
He hammers that spot, relentless, precise.
The coil of tension in my belly tightens with every impact.
The world narrows to the slap of skin on skin, the wet, slick sounds of our joining, his ragged breaths in my ear.
The grief and rage are still there, but they’re being burned away, transformed into this desperate, physical need.
One of his hands releases my hip and slides between us, his thumb finding my clit. The direct contact is a shock. I jerk against him, a strangled cry torn from my throat.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, his voice guttural. “Let it go. Give it to me. All of it.”
The dual assault is too much. The deep, filling thrusts and the insistent, circling pressure on my most sensitive nerve… it’s a feedback loop of sensation. The coil snaps.
My orgasm crashes over me without warning, a violent, shattering wave that steals my breath and my sight.
I convulse around him, my inner muscles clamping down on his length in rapid, rhythmic pulses.
A raw, broken scream is ripped from my throat, echoing in the empty gym.
It’s not just pleasure—it’s a purging. Tears stream down my face anew, but they’re different now. Cleansing.
He curses, a low, reverent string of words lost against my skin.
My climax triggers his. With a final, deep, grinding thrust, he buries himself as far as he can go and stills.
I feel the hot, liquid pulse of him deep inside me, the intimate claim, and another, smaller aftershock trembles through my body.
We stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, his forehead pressed against my shoulder while I try to remember how to form coherent thoughts.
"Fuck," he says finally, the word muffled against my skin.
"Yeah," I agree.
He carefully lowers me back to my feet, both of us wincing at the loss of contact, and helps me pull my pants back on before dealing with his own.
Then he just pulls me against his chest and holds me, one hand stroking my hair while the other presses against my lower back.
"We will figure this out," he says quietly. "Patrick, Erin, all of it. You are not alone in this, Rosalina. Not anymore."
I nod against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
He pulls back just enough to look at my hands, and I see his expression darken when he sees the blood that has started to dry on my knuckles.
"Come on," he says gently. "Let me clean these up properly."