I feel it cling to her skin as I fist the fabric at her lower back, bunching it until my knuckles brush the soft dip just above her tailbone.
She breaks the kiss only to tug at my shirt, careful around the bandage but frantic all the same.
“Off,” she orders, breathless, voice shaking. “I need to see how bad.”
“It’s fine?—”
“Dante.” Her eyes flash with a dark urgency. “Let me.”
I release her long enough to yank the shirt over my head, wincing as the motion pulls at the graze.
The gauze is soaked crimson, peeling at the edges; beneath it, the bullet carved a shallow trench just above my collarbone—it's raw and ugly, but not deep.
Blood wells in the furrow, bright against the older bruises across my ribs.
She hisses through her teeth, fingers ghosting over the edges, then lower, tracing the ridges of old scars with a reverence that makes my throat tight.
Her touch is feather-light, but it burns.
I wince, and she pulls back but I lead her to the bed.
It's narrow, a military cot bolted to the wall with rusted brackets, and the thin mattress is sagging in the middle from years of breakdown.
It creaks under my weight as I sit, and pull her closer.
Angelica straddles me in one fluid motion, knees bracketing my hips, nightgown riding up her thighs until the hem catches on my belt.
The lace edge of her panties is pale blue, soaked through at the center; I can see the dark shadow of her through the fabric, and my cock jerks against my zipper.
“Easy,” she murmurs, sensing the tension in my shoulder. “Let me handle this."
Her hands frame my face again, guiding me back until I’m reclining against the cold wall.
She follows, never breaking contact as her weight settles over me.
Then her lips meet mine again in a searing union I never want to break.
My hands find her hips as she rocks against me slowly, and the friction through denim and lace maddening.
I grip her hip with my good hand, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to let her know how bad I want her.
She gasps, arches against me, then reaches between us to free me.
The zipper rasps and cool air hits my skin; then her fingers wrap around my length, stroking once, twice, thumb swiping over the bead of moisture at the tip with a pressure that makes my hips buck involuntarily.
“Angelica—” I growl in a gravelly, hoarse tone.
“Shh.” She rises on her knees, shoves her panties aside with trembling fingers, and guides me to her entrance.
She’s slick and ready, and her heat makes my vision blur at the edges.
The head of my cock nudges her folds, slips through wetness, and she sinks down—inch by torturous inch—until I’m buried to the base.
Her inner walls flutter around me, clenching tight, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from coming right then.
She starts to move, hips rolling in a rhythm that’s both gentle and torturous at the same time.
Her hands brace on my chest, careful to avoid the wound and her mouth claims mine again possessively.
