His rhythm builds, heat moving through me again, fuller this time, deeper. The way he holds my wrists above my head makes every sensation stronger.
“Savannah,” he groans, like he’s been holding my name back all night.
I don’t last long. Everything is new, intense, too much and not enough. I reach the edge fast, clinging to him, breath shaking.
“Riccardo—”
“I’ve got you,” he breathes against my neck. “Come for me.”
I break again.
It crashes through me, harder than before, pulling a sound from my throat I’m glad no one else can hear. I’m too lost. It feels so good, I almost black out.
He follows a moment later, burying his face in my shoulder as he comes, holding me tight, like he needs the contact as much as I do. The sensation of him spilling deep inside me is too hot for words.
He finally collapses beside me, pulling me into his chest, still breathing hard.
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.
I curl up in his arms, feeling safer than I’ve ever felt, and fall asleep in seconds.
12
RICCARDO
The next two weeks settle into a rhythm I didn’t expect. A rhythm I didn’t know I wanted.
I wake before Savannah does, but I stay a few extra minutes every morning just to watch her breathe. Her color is better now. Her cheeks recovered their warmth. The shadows under her eyes have faded. She sleeps deeper, easier. Her chest rises and falls in a steady, healthy pattern I didn’t hear the first night she lay in my bed.
Her heart is stronger. I can tell because when I place my head on her chest, the uneven beat is no longer there. The medication is working. And every time she laughs, I hear the difference.
During the day, I handle business. Meetings, territory updates, Bratva surveillance, collecting intel on Belov, making sure my men keep pressure where it needs to be. Valerio drives me to and from every location, and every time we return to the villa, he glances at me in the mirror with a smirk.
Because he knows exactly where I’m going the second I step inside. Straight to my kitten.
Savannah cooks most evenings. Hearty dishes, warm ones, sometimes complicated, sometimes simple. It doesn’t matter.She could hand me a slice of burned toast and I’d eat every piece if she made it.
And every night, after dinner, I take her upstairs.
Or against the wall.
Or on the couch if we don’t make it that far.
She gives so much of herself every time she touches me that I find myself hungry for her the second I wake up, and starving by the time I walk through the door at night. The sounds she makes, the way her body reacts, the soft way she says my name—it’s a fucking drug, and I’m addicted.
Plus, she’s getting stronger. She moves with more energy. Her steps aren’t as careful, and she no longer presses her hand to her chest after climbing the stairs. The bruises on her knees from that alley are gone, replaced with warm skin I’ve kissed more than once. Or more than a dozen times.But who’s counting?
Every night she collapses against me, breathless, and every morning she wakes with a sleepy smile like she’s surprised she’s allowed to feel this good.
She talks to her mother every afternoon. Long conversations with laughter woven in, and when she hangs up she always looks relieved.
“Stable,” she tells me.
“Better today.”
“Having a nurse helps.”
I nod. I listen. But every time she talks about the situation at home, I feel a shift. Something unsaid lurking under the surface. She’s holding a piece of the truth back, and I don’t push.
