He guided me down, a slow, controlled descent until our bodies were cushioned by the soft pile of our discarded clothes on the dusty floorboards. He moved over me, his weight a comforting, solid pressure, and held himself up on his elbows, framing my face with his hands.
“Luzia,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t name. It was awe, need, and a hundred other things all at once. “Tell me what you want. Tell me how to touch you.”
The raw honesty of the question, the complete surrender of his desires to mine, shattered the last of my defenses.
“Just… stay,” I breathed, my hands clutching his arms. I didn’t want to think about what I would do now that I would have to live on land for the rest of my life. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me alone.”
“Not a chance of me leaving you,” he vowed, his voice a ragged growl. “I’m right here.”
He lowered his head, and the first touch of his lips was not on my mouth, but in the hollow of my throat, where my pulse was beating a frantic, wild rhythm against my skin. He didn’t kissme, not at first. He just rested there, breathing me in, letting me feel the warmth of his mouth against that vulnerable place. The light scrape of his stubble was a startling, intimate texture.
“I can feel your heart,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration against my throat that resonated through my entire body. “It’s the strongest thing I’ve ever felt.”
From there, his mouth began a slow, worshipful path downward. He traced the sharp line of my collarbone with his tongue, and I shivered, my fingers tightening in his hair. It was exquisitely gentle and maddeningly thorough. This wasn’t the hurried touch of lust but the patient exploration of a scholar discovering a priceless artifact. He was memorizing me.
His hand followed the path of his mouth, cupping my breast, his palm warm and heavy. His thumb circled the peak, teasing it to life through the air, and he watched my face as he did it, his eyes dark and intense. He was learning my body’s language, cataloging my reactions. When I gasped and arched my back, a slow, satisfied smile touched his lips.
“So beautiful,” he murmured before lowering his head to take that hardened peak into the heat of his mouth.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through me, so intense it was like a lightning strike to my spine. I cried out his name, the sound a raw, helpless thing swallowed by the thick, dark walls of our prison. He suckled gently, his tongue tracing patterns that made my hips writhe on the floor. He was in complete control, and I was completely lost.
His free hand roamed, charting the territory of my body. It slid over my ribs, and his fingers paused on a thin, raised scar—a memory of a training knife that had slipped years ago. I flinched, instinctively wanting to hide the imperfection, but he didn’t recoil. Instead, he lifted his head, looked down at the mark, and then pressed a soft, deliberate kiss right on the scarred skin.
“This is a part of your story,” he whispered against my ribs, his breath warm. “It means you fought. It means you’re a survivor. Don’t ever hide it from me.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. He wasn’t just touching my body—he was touching my history, my pain, and calling it beautiful. He was trying to rebuild me with his words to convince me of a worth I had long since forgotten.
His mouth and hands continued their unhurried pilgrimage. He praised the strength in my stomach, his lips tracing the muscles there. “So much power here,” he breathed out, his voice thick with awe. He kissed the sharp jut of my hip bone. “I love this curve,” he said, his hand smoothing down the length of my thigh. “How you’re built for speed, for strength. Everything about you is incredible.”
By the time his hand slid between my legs, I was aching for him, a deep, primal need that was no longer just about connection, but about a desperate, clawing hunger only he could satisfy. I was already slick and ready for him, my body betraying a need that my mind was only just beginning to accept. I reached for him then, my hands trembling as I guided him to me, my silent, urgent plea.
As he entered me, he did it with an agonizing slowness. My muscles parted, letting him in, then wildly contracted over him to keep him there. I met his gaze, holding it, letting him see everything—the pain, the fear, and the new fragile hope he was building inside me.
He began to move, and the rhythm was slow and deep, and sounds of encouragement escaped my lips. He set a powerful rhythm of the river and tides that would ease the pain of losing my home. With every deliberate thrust, he seemed to be pushing the despair out of me, filling the hollow spaces with his presence and his heat. He anchored me to the world, to the land, to this moment. My hands gripped his back, my nails scoring his skin,not in passion, but as if holding on to the only solid thing in a storm.
The world outside the two of us ceased to exist. There was no Zé, no Silva, no lost flower. There was only the slide of his skin against mine, the sound of our mingled breaths, the steady beat of his heart against my ribs, and the incredible, focused intensity in his eyes. He was entirely present, entirely mine in that moment, and I was his.
He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “You feel so good,” he groaned, the words a raw confession. “God, you’re so perfect. Let me feel you. Let go for me, Luzia.”
His words were the final key. He allowed me to shatter, knowing he would be there to hold the pieces. My release came upon me like a tidal wave, a blinding, overwhelming surge of sensation and emotion that ripped a cry from my throat. It was a wave of pleasure so intense it felt like grief, washing away weeks of fear and tension in one powerful flood. I felt his body go rigid, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he followed me over the edge, pouring his release and surrender into me.
The world returned in slow motion as a soft, warm haze. He collapsed on me, his weight a welcome, grounding burden. His face found my neck’s curve, and he stayed there, his breaths coming in ragged, shuddering gasps against my skin. I held him tightly, my arms wrapped around his sweat-slick back, my lungs struggling to draw a full breath. Our heartbeats, which had hammered a frantic duet against each other’s ribs, slowly began to find a shared, calmer rhythm.
After a moment that could have been minutes or an hour, he stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my shoulder. He shifted his weight from on top of me, but the secure wrap of his arm instantly replaced the loss of his full pressure as he pulled me to his side, tucking me against the length of his body as if I belonged there. With his free hand, he reached into the tangleof our clothes on the floor and found his shirt. He didn’t put it on. Instead, he draped it carefully over my shoulders and chest, a tender gesture of care that warmed me more than the cotton itself.
His fingers began to idly trace patterns on my arm—mindless, gentle circles that spoke of comfort and a quiet possession. My hand, which had been fisted in his hair, unclenched. I found the silver medallion, still clutched in my other fist. I opened my fingers. The metal was no longer cold. It was alive with the heat of us, a small, solid sun in the palm of my hand.
He pressed a soft kiss to my temple. “I’m here,” he whispered again, not as a promise for the future but as a simple statement of fact.
And in the quiet dark of our cage, wrapped in his arms, I was not a failure. I was not a warrior. I was not alone. I was anchored.
CHAPTER 20
Caio
Her hair was the first thing I saw—a dark spill across my arm in the dusty morning light. Luzia. She was curled against my side, her breathing a soft, steady rhythm against my ribs. The scent of her skin—earth, river, and something uniquely her own—filled my senses, an anchor in the shifting world. For a moment, a single, perfect moment, the universe consisted only of the warmth of her body and the profound weight of her trust. Last night hadn’t been a dream born of desperation. It was real. The peace I felt was a foreign country I never thought I’d visit, and I wanted to build a life in it.
A sharp, violent rap on the door shattered the peace.
