This is daylight bleeding into darkness. This is acknowledging what's between us instead of pretending it doesn't exist when the sun comes up.
This is choosing him. Not just choosing healing through him, but choosing him.
Renato.
He stands abruptly, taking me with him. He holds me close in his arms, and he's moving. His steps are sure, purposeful, as he carries me through the study, into the hallway, toward the stairs.
He carries me through shadow and moonlight, his breath breaking against mine in small, ragged bursts. My back meets the wall halfway up the stairs; the banister trembles with the impact. His hands bracket my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, grounding me even as the world tilts. His forehead presses to mine, and for a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing, the way his eyes search mine—dark and endless, like the sky before a storm.
“Do you understand,” he murmurs, “that you could stop me with one word? That I’d still fall on my knees for you?”
I nod, incapable of speech, my throat tight with the weight of what he’s offering. His mouth finds mine again as he climbs, hungry and demanding. I kiss him back with everything I have, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body arched against his.
He kicks open his bedroom door and carries me inside, and this time when he lays me on his bed, there's no careful control. No holding back.
This is weeks of pent-up passion and desire, the thing we’ve both been holding back for so long it’s become a living thing between us.
His hands are everywhere—pushing the silk robe from my shoulders, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips with bruising intensity. I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing more, finally ready to take everything.
Cool air grazes my skin just before his palms do, calloused and demanding, mapping me like he’s memorizing every inch. He breathes my name like a warning to himself. Every inch he touches becomes a vow not to hurt me. His head dips to the curve where neck meets shoulder; his lips linger there as if tasting forgiveness.
The nightgown is gone in seconds, discarded without thought, and then his shirt follows, buttons scattering across the floor. His pants are next, and then there’s nothing between us but skin and heat and the electric charge of anticipation.
He pauses above me, his forehead touching mine. The heat between us feels alive. His eyes search mine—not asking permission, confirming it’s already been given.
“If worship had a shape,” he whispers, voice shaking, “it would be this. This is what it feels like when the monster worships instead of devours.”
I see the question there, the flicker of vulnerability beneath the hunger, and I answer by pulling him down to me, kissing him deeply, my legs wrapping around his waist.
This is my answer. This is my choice.
Him.
I choose him.
When he moves, the world contracts to a single line of fire connecting us. It’s not possession; it’s a silent promise carved in flesh and breath. I hold my breath as he enters me slowly despite the urgency thrumming between us, his eyes locked on mine, watching for any sign of hesitation or fear. But there's none. Not tonight.
Tonight, I'm not healing.
I'm claiming.
I move against him and he shudders, control fracturing like glass under too much pressure.
“Look at me, Camilla,” he growls near my ear. “Don’t look away.”
I do, and the sight of him undone because of me makes something fierce and claiming rise inside. This is the man who’s seen me at my most broken, who’s held me together when I thought I’d shatter.
And now, he’s mine.
We move together, no longer cautious, the rhythm built from all the days we pretended not to want this, all the nights we lay side by side, aching for more. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, each touch a brand, a claim.
My nails rake down his back, and he hisses, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back to give him better access to mythroat. I gasp his name as pleasure builds impossibly high, my body tightening around him, my skin slick with sweat.
His mouth finds mine again, softer now, tasting the edge of my breath. The world tilts; the ceiling spins; everything narrows to nothing but him.
His hand finds mine and pins it to the mattress—not to trap, but to anchor us in the chaos we created.
This isn’t gentle. Isn’t careful. Isn’t about replacing bad memories with good ones. This is about us. About want and need and the thing we’ve been dancing around for weeks finally breaking free.
