For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, slowly, his hand starts to move, sliding under my shirt—his shirt—to rest against my bare skin. The touch is gentle, almost reverent.
It’s the first time he’s touched me like this in eleven years. It feels like it should mean something. I know itdoesmean something, even if neither of us will say it. Even if it never goes further than this.
There’s no future for us. There never has been. But this moment… this one is just ours.
Just like all the stolen moments back then.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs.
"I won't want you to stop." It’s my turn for my breath to catch as his fingers slide up my waist, skimming over the flat of my stomach. At first, that’s as far as he goes. He just explores, fingers stroking my waist and around my navel and along my ribs, as if he’s relearning the softness of my skin, remembering what it’s like to touch me. He’s still an arm’s length from me.
Neither of us speaks. No other part of us touches. In the dark, I can hear his soft, quick breaths, feel the tension rippling down his arm. He wants more.Iwant more. But both of us are painfully aware how careful we have to be, how quickly passion could take over and push us over a line that we shouldn’t cross.
And then, Elio’s hand drifts higher. Up my ribs, to the curve of my bare breast under the shirt, fingertip tracing the soft arc of flesh back and forth. I gasp at the sensation. This is so different from Desmond's rough, violent touch. This is careful. Tender. This is Elio choosing to touch me because I asked, not because he's taking something I don't want to give.
"You're so soft," he whispers, just as his thumb brushes over my nipple. "So perfect."
I let out a soft, panting moan, my back arching at the electric sensation of his thumb rolling over the stiffening peak. I hear him make a low sound deep in his throat, feel that tension radiating off of him. I wonder how hard he is right now, what sound he would make if I reached out and ran my fingers down the line of his cock through his sleep pants.
But I don’t. There’s some unspoken agreement that he’ll touch me, not the other way around. A feeling that if I touch him, it’ll push him further than he wants to go. That we might cross lines we never have before.
I arch into his touch, wanting more. He seems to understand, because he cups his hand around my breast, his fingers working my nipple a little more firmly, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming.
"Elio—" His name comes out as a breathy gasp, and he groans low in his throat.
"Shh,” he murmurs. “Just feel."
His other hand slides down my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my sleep shorts. He pauses there, giving me achance to object. When I don't—when I lift my hips in silent permission—he slides his hand inside.
The first touch of his fingers against my center makes me cry out. I'm already wet, already ready for him, and he groans when he feels it. He hasn’t even slipped his finger between my folds—it’s just his middle finger, sliding up the seam of my pussy as his other fingers bracket it, but I’m that drenched just from how he’s touched me so far.
"Fuck, Annie,” Elio groans. “God, all that for me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, the word coming out strangled. “Just for you. Only?—”
“Don’t.” His voice is so tight that it sounds pained. “Don’t… say things like that. Just feel.”
Something about the command sets off a jolt of pleasure that I hadn’t anticipated. I swallow back the urge to murmuryes, sir, and close my eyes, letting myself give over to the sensation of Elio’s fingers working my nipple and sliding back and forth along my outer folds.
When his middle finger dips between them, pressing briefly against my entrance before he deftly parts me with two fingers and strokes back and forth along my inner flesh, I let out a strangled, shocked cry at the sudden sensation. The pleasure builds quickly, intensely, and I grab onto his shoulder for anchor.
Elio stops, and I want to scream. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, and I nod frantically, my hips arching against his hand.
“More,” I gasp. “Please, it’s so good—” He hasn’t even touched my clit yet, and I can already feel the orgasm building, feel how close I am to the edge. Even when he starts moving again, he doesn’t immediately go there, only strokes his fingers along my inner and outer folds, working my pleasure higher until I’m hot and swollen and dripping, on the verge of begging.
“Elio—” I nearly whine his name, writhing under his hands, and he makes another of those pained sounds deep in his throat.
“Are you going to come for me,cuore mio?” he murmurs, his voice rough with need. “If I touch you here–” His finger slides up, tapping against my clit and making me gasp, breathless with pleasure, “—will you come?”
I whimper my assent, too far gone to speak. His finger rolls over my clit, pressing upward with every stroke, and I have the clarity of mind for one brief moment to realize that he remembers, after all these years, exactly what makes me come.
And then the orgasm hits me, and my mind shatters. I’m a fog of pleasure, of need, of sensation. There’s nothing but how good it feels, pleasure rippling through my body in wave after wave, as I hear Elio’s voice crooning in Italian, murmuring what sounds like endearments as I come for him.
“That’s it,” I hear him murmur, his fingers still working my clit as I arch and writhe, gripping his shoulder in an effort to pull him closer to me, but he doesn’t budge. “That’s my girl,” he groans. “You’re so pretty when you come,cuore mio.”
“You… can’t… see me,” I gasp as I come down, eyes misted with tears from the force of the pleasure.
“I don’t need to.”
