"Ti amo," I whisper against her throat, the Italian coming unbidden. "Ti amo anch'io, stellina."
She gasps, understanding even without translation. "Say it again."
"I love you too, little star," I tell her in English, then Italian again, then in every language I know while I position myself between her thighs. "Je t'aime. Te amo. Ich liebe dich. And I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me."
When I enter her, it's slow, careful, both of us maintaining eye contact as our bodies join. This isn't fucking. This isn't even making love. This is something beyond physical—a claiming of souls under the brightening sky.
"My sanctuary," she whispers, her hands framing my face as I move inside her. "You're my sanctuary, Alex."
I growl softly, needing to mark her even in tenderness.
We move together in perfect synchronization, no rush toward completion, just the steady build of pleasure mixed withemotional intensity that makes us both shake. The city wakes below us, but up here in our private universe, time stops.
When she comes, it's with my name on her lips and tears in her eyes. I follow her over, whispering "Ti amo" against her mouth as my body shudders with release. "Mia per sempre"—mine forever.
We stay joined, neither wanting to separate, as the sky transforms from blue to gold around us. This rooftop where she first trusted me with her love of stars has become holy ground, our sanctuary from a world that would destroy this tenderness if it could.
20 - Emma
“Keep your stance wider, stellina. The gun doesn’t care how delicate you look.”
Alessandro's voice rumbles against my ear as he adjusts my position in the underground shooting range, his chest pressed against my back, solid and warm in the cool subterranean air. The acrid smell of gunpowder from our previous rounds mingles with his cologne, that musky floral scent that makes my body respond even when my mind knows I should be focused on the weapon in my hands.
The weight of the Glock no longer frightens me after five weeks of marriage. Five weeks since I walked down that aisle as Frances Hewson, trembling and afraid. Now I hold death in my palm with steady confidence, and the transformation thrills me.
"Breathe," Alessandro murmurs, his breath hot against my neck as his hands cover mine on the grip. "Feel the weight. Let it become part of you."
His body molds against mine from behind, and I feel every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as they guide mine, and unmistakably, his cock hardening against my lower back. The combination of danger and desire makes heat pool between my thighs. Even here, surrounded by concrete walls that muffle sound, with deadly weapons and the faint echo of our last shots still ringing, my body responds to him like he's rewired my very DNA.
"Now," he says, his lips brushing my ear. "Three shots, center mass. Show me what my good girl has learned."
The praise sends a rush of wetness to my core. I squeeze the trigger in rapid succession. One, two, three. The gun kicks against my palm with each shot, a violent kiss that travels up my arm. Each bullet tears through the paper target's center mass, clustered so tightly they create a single ragged hole where a heart would be.
"Christ," Alessandro breathes, his body going rigid behind me. His cock presses harder against me, fully erect now, and his hands tighten on my hips with bruising force. "You're perfect. A natural killer."
Pride surges through me at his approval, dark and intoxicating. "I had a good teacher," I say, deliberately grinding back against his erection, feeling the thick length of him through our clothes.
He spins me around so fast the gun clatters onto the counter. My back hits the cold concrete wall, and his mouth crashes into mine with desperate hunger. His tongue invades my mouth while his hands grab my ass, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and I can feel his cock pressing against me through our clothes, right where I need him most.
"You're going to be the death of me," he growls against my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His teeth scrape against my pulse point as his hand slides under my shirt. His shirt, actually, stolen from his closet this morning. His fingers find my breast, thumb brushing my nipple through the lace of my bra until it peaks painfully hard.
"Alex," I gasp, grinding against him, seeking friction. "Please."
"Please what?" His hand moves between us, cupping me through my jeans. The pressure makes me whimper. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I manage, my hands fumbling with his belt. "I need you inside me. Now."
He sets me down just long enough to yank my jeans and panties down my legs. The cool air hits my heated skin for only a moment before his fingers find me, sliding through my wetness with a groan.
"So wet already," he murmurs, circling my clit with his thumb while two fingers push inside me. "This pussy is always ready for me, isn't it?"
"Yes," I moan, my hips bucking against his hand. "Always. Only for you."
He works me expertly, fingers curling to hit that spot that makes me see stars while his thumb maintains perfect pressure on my clit. I'm already close, embarrassingly fast, when he suddenly stops.
"No," I whimper at the loss. "Don't stop."
"Turn around," he commands, his voice rough with need. "Hands on the wall."
