Chapter 22 Evi
EVI
I never, in my wildest dreams, thought a man could make sex while I’m bleeding sound so appealing.
I never knew I needed to hear those words so badly, to feel wanted, even when I’m at my least desirable.
And as Sandro kisses me with a searing intensity, I feel the desperate ache of need building in my core.
My heart races as my shallow, uneven breaths rush from me with each momentary respite he gives my lips. And with my body pressed close to Sandro’s—and though I can’t quite form words—I feel the intensity of the connection between us in every brush of his hand, every caress of his tongue.
His focus is entirely on me, his energy burning with a desire to make me feel safe and wanted, and it’s intoxicating, grounding me in a way nothing has before.
“This is what I want, Evi. You’re what I want,” he rasps between kisses.
Then his fingers flex against my hips, and he turns me to face the mirror.
Our eyes meet in the reflection, and it startles me—not because I look particularly different, but because as his gaze sweeps hungrily down my curves, I see myself as he sees me.
The intensity in his eyes is unflinching, unwavering.
His words, soft but firm, echo in the tiled room as he slowly lifts my dress again. And this time I don’t stop him. Lifting my arms over my head, I let him strip me, exposing my flesh as goosebumps ripples across my skin.
“See how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting along the curve of my neck. “Perfect.”
Something in me falters. I’ve spent years feeling broken, a disappointment in my own body, a girl who could never measure up.
My parents’ warnings, their cold certainty that no man could truly love me because of my inability to bear children, have haunted me for as long as I can remember.
And yet here is Sandro, looking at me as though nothing in the world could make me unworthy, as though I am everything he could ever want.
My chest tightens, a mixture of awe, fear, and longing.
I want to believe him. I want so desperately to absorb his certainty and feel it inside me like a shield.
But there’s a quiet terror in the back of my mind, sharp and insistent.
What if he knew? What if he knew I can’t give him children?
Would he stop wanting me? Would he feel betrayed by my silence?
Even in the intensity of the moment, that gnawing thought refuses to leave.
I feel it knotting my stomach as I try to push it aside, to let myself enjoy the closeness, the warmth of his affection.
But it’s stubborn, persistent. Every brush of his hand, every word of praise, is laced with a tension I can’t quite escape.
I am caught between exhilaration and panic, between wanting to melt into him and fearing the inevitable moment of revelation.
He senses my hesitation, though he doesn’t pause, doesn’t pull back as his calloused fingers continue to brush over my skin, his hands following my curves as he removes my bra, then panties.
There is patience in his insistence, a quiet command that I allow myself to follow with each tantalizing caress.
And in letting go, even a fraction, I feel a rush of relief, a closeness I’ve never known. It’s a trust I haven’t offered anyone, not fully, not like this. And that vulnerability terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
His words continue, soft and insistent, and I feel them winding around the fragile part of me that has been so long neglected.
“You are mine. And I want every part of you,” Sandro rasps, his eyes finding mine in the mirror, and I shiver as I hear the sound of his zipper sliding down.
The weight of those words is almost unbearable. I want to believe it. I want to trust it completely. And yet the secret I carry is heavy, pressing against my chest. My body reacts instinctively to his touch, to the intimacy, to the affirmation, but my mind is a whirlwind of guilt.
I don’t know how to enjoy this fully when I’m hiding the truth. How can I let myself feel desired, loved, when part of me knows I am not what he truly expects, not what he was promised in this marriage?
“Tell me I can have you, Evi. Tell me you want me inside you right now,” he commands.
And God, I do. I always want Sandro. I crave him constantly now. And I think I always will.
“I want you,” I whisper, the words giving me a sense of agency I hadn’t realized I needed until now. “Please, Sandro.”
One of his hands reaches around to cradle my jaw, turning my head so he can steal a kiss from behind.
And with the other, he runs his swollen tip between my folds, gathering the wetness there that still makes my cheeks flame to think about.
It feels wrong, dirty to do this now, and yet so dangerously exhilarating that he wants me even so.
And as he thrusts inside me from behind, I cry out against his lips, my core releasing, my muscles relaxing to let him in.
“God, you feel so good,” he groans, nipping at my lip. Then he turns my face until I’m staring myself in the eyes once more. “Watch how perfect you are, Sunshine. I want you to see how flawlessly you come for me.”
I gasp, the molten heat that surges through me washing away the guilt and pain as the desire builds inside me, wiping my mind blank of anything except how good Sandro feels, how breathtakingly gorgeous he looks as he towers over me, thrusting slow and deep and passionately.
“I’m going to fill you up with so much seed, it’ll be leaking out of you constantly,” he promises darkly.
My breath hitches, my temperature rising at the threat that sounds entirely too enticing. Slick excitement rushes through my core, mingling with the wetness that’s already coating the insides of my thighs, and I whimper, my skin on fire as I watch Sandro with wonder.
He’s magnificent.
Powerful and hard and beautiful in such a masculine way it makes my stomach quiver.
His arm snakes around my waist and crosses my abdomen to palm my breast, and his other hand slides between me and the counter so his fingers can find the throbbing pulse of my clit.
Then his lips find the lobe of my ear, and he watches me in the mirror as he lightly bites down, releasing a flood of jolting pleasure that races through me like a life wire.
“Oh God, I’m gonna come!” I gasp, shaking uncontrollably for an entirely new reason than when he first entered the bathroom and found me.
“That’s my good girl,” Sandro purrs in my ear. “Show me just how perfect you are.”
A sob rips from me as I come undone, my walls clenching and throbbing around his hard length as my clit flutters against his fingertips. And he never stops their relentless circles as he thrusts—three hard, deep, erratic thrusts—and spills himself inside me.
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, to ground myself in the sensation of him, the solidity of his presence. The warmth of his hands, the husky certainty in his voice—it all tethers me in ways I didn’t know I could be tethered. For one overwhelming moment, nothing has ever felt so right.
But as I slowly come down from the tingling high of my release, my stomach knots with guilt once more. It tightens with every heartbeat, because I’m lying to the one person I want to trust completely. And my heart sinks as I realize I’m even worse off than before.
Without a word, Sandro eases out of me, then guides me to the shower, testing the water to make sure it’s warm. Then he steers me gently inside until the soothing liquid streams over us, washing away the sweat, the remnants of our shared intensity.
And yet, the water does nothing to wash away the guilt in my chest. I cling to my husband because it feels safe because, in his arms, I am protected, but every caress of his hands, every brush of skin against skin, reminds me of the truth I cannot speak aloud.
I want to tell him. I want to spill it all out—the failure I fear, the lie I am living, the worry that I am not enough for him. But the words lodge in my throat. I’m too afraid of his reaction, too afraid of what would happen if he knew the reality of my body, of my limitations.
I can’t tell Sandro. I can’t risk it—not with my family’s lives on the line. So I remain silent, pressing myself into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, listening to the beat of his heart as if it could anchor me against the rising tide of my panic.
And yet, even as guilt claws at me, there is an undeniable pull of joy, of recognition, of intimacy.
I feel connected to him in a way I’ve never been connected to anyone, never allowed myself to be.
Every whispered word, every affirmation, every brush of skin is a declaration that I am wanted, needed, adored.
It’s intoxicating.
I want to let myself sink fully into it, to let myself be held, to let myself believe.
But the thought of the truth waiting, lurking just beneath the surface, is relentless.
I am consumed by a duality I’ve never felt before, desire and fear, love and shame, vulnerability and guilt.
And in the silence between breaths, in the heat of his gaze and the unspoken promises, I feel the overwhelming complexity of what it means to be his wife, to be wanted by him, and yet to carry a secret that could unravel everything.
Even as he holds me close, murmuring reassurances I ache to believe, the guilt and fear linger, unyielding. My chest tightens again, and tears prick my eyes, not from pleasure or tenderness, but from the ache of knowing that I am living beneath a shadow, a secret that I cannot share.
After everything he’s done for me, I’ll never deserve this man. And the realization makes me want to break down once more. But I can’t. Not if I intend to keep living this lie. Shoving down my emotions, I fight the tears, unwilling to lose it in front of Sandro again.
The water continues to wash over us, and my heart aches when he tenderly starts to massage soap over my body and down the insides of my thighs, taking gentle care of me as he cleans me up.
I let myself feel the complicated mix of emotions, but I am painfully aware that what we have is fragile, temporary, a bubble that exists only until I have to face the truth of who I am, of what I’m hiding.
And yet, despite the guilt, despite the fear, despite the secret I cannot voice, I allow myself one undeniable truth.
I’m completely in love with Sandro. Even with the weight of my shame, I cannot deny the fierce, burning need to belong in his arms, to be claimed by him, to be loved by him—even if it means hiding the deepest truth about myself.
And that, more than anything, terrifies me almost as much as it fills me with hope.