His hands tighten on mine, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away again. "You don’t owe meanything, bella mia. Not a touch, not a kiss, not a single word you’re not ready to give."
The lump in my throat swells until I can barely breathe past it.
"I came because you matter to me," he continues. "Because I couldn’t stand knowing you were in that place another day. Because the thought of you hurting—it’s…" He stops, exhales hard, like the words are dangerous if he says them wrong. "It’s something I can’t live with."
I don’t know what to say. My mind is still tangled, torn between the shadows Roberto left behind and the warmth of the man holding me now.
"I want you to kiss me. Not because I feel like I owe you anything. Because I want to erase his feel on my skin, his nauseating presence. I'm twenty-two years old, and I've only ever been kissed the way I should be kissed, tenderly, lovingly, once. By you. And I want it to be you again, Raffael DeSantis, who does that."
I swallow and feel my face heating. I've never been that forward in my life. No, strike that. I used to be that forward. Always. Until Roberto beat it out of me. I wantthat back. I want the old Sophia back. The one who threw herself at one of her father's soldiers, consequences be damned. And I know there is only one man in this world who can do that for me. I stare up into his eyes. I don't think I can take another rejection.
"Are you sure?"
I suppress a laugh; it would be loud and hysterical. "Just as sure as I was when I was eighteen," I confess.
With a hungry groan that belies the way his arms move around me, tender and slow, he pulls me toward him. I keep my eyes open. I closed them every time Roberto touched or kissed me, wanting to escape reality. Not tonight. Tonight, I want to know what it truly means to be desired. Tonight, I want to know if all those movies have been lying when a man and a woman writhe on the bed, moaning.
"Bella mia," he groans, right before his lips, ever so tenderly, brush against mine. I listen carefully, but there is not a fiber of my being that's protesting, that feels threatened. His lips linger, testing, tasting, as if one wrong move might shatter me completely.
I’ve been touched before—too many times—but never like this. Never like I was something worth holding gently, worth savoring. The way his hand cradles the back of my head, the feather-light press of his mouth, the warmth of his breath between kisses… it feels like I’ve stepped into another world, one where I’m not bracing for pain, one where touch doesn’t burn.
For a heartbeat, my chest aches in a different way, like I’m grieving the years I lost, the years no one kissed me like this.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, slow, reverently, as though mapping a treasure he doesn’t want to forget. Every movement is careful, measured, but beneath that restraint, I can feel the tension coiled in him, the hunger he’s holding back for my sake.
When he deepens the kiss, it’s by inches, like he’s giving me time to change my mind. Like he’s promising me, this is mine to choose, mine to control.
I don’t pull away. I lean in.
And something inside me, some locked, withered part, cracks open just a little.
I’ve spent years shrinking under someone else’s hands, years closing my eyes to survive. Tonight, I keep them open because I want to see. I want to remember.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breathing sounds rough, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. "I’ll never hurt you, bella mia. Not in any way. Not ever."
"Show me, show me how a man should make love to a woman," I beg.
She hasno idea what she’s doing to me. That kiss. That fucking kiss! I want to devour her. I want to brand her with my body. I want to tear her apart and worship every ruined piece until it’s new again. But she’s so breakable, so precious, and she’s looking at me like I’m the only air she’s ever wanted to breathe. I can’t let the animal inside me take over, not yet. She deserves tenderness, not hunger. Not the madness that’s lived inside me for years.
Carefully, I lower her to the mattress. There’s a furious ache in my chest and in my dick, but it’s the tremor in her hands that matters more. She keeps her eyes open, locked on mine, both of us refusing to blink first.
I kiss her again, slower this time, letting the heat build by degrees. Her mouth opens under mine in a silent gasp. I taste salt and honey, feeling the way she shudders, just barely, letting the past slough off one trembling exhale ata time. My hands find the line of her jaw, and my thumb gently brushes her cheek.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, brushing my lips over hers, afraid of the answer, needing the answer more than air.
She nods, so small, so desperate, and her hands reach for my hips, anchoring us together. "Don’t stop," she says.
So I don’t. I lay her down like a prayer, worshipping every inch. I start with her collarbone, the little nicks where he used to grab her too hard and leave bruises. I work my way down, memorizing every freckle, every scar, every piece of evidence that she survived that house. I try to kiss the shadows away, make new memories out of the old wounds.
She arches into me, and her little noises sound like broken glass under my palms. I could live here, in these sounds, for the rest of my life. My hands move to the hem of her shirt, but I don’t rush. I wait, watching her face for the smallest sign of fear. She looks down, then back up. Her voice is thready, but sure, "I want this. I want you."
I want to say you don’t have to do this, that we can wait, that I’ll sleep on the goddamn floor if it keeps her safe, but she needs to take this back. She needs to write over every memory with something softer.
So I push her shirt up slowly, an inch at a time, exposing smooth olive skin. She's not wearing a bra, and even here, I see the remnants of fingers that were never gentle. I go slow, letting her set the pace. I look her straight inthe eye. "You’re so beautiful," I rasp, because it’s the only truth big enough to fit in the room. She swallows, and I see her trying to believe it. I vow to spend the rest of my life convincing her.
I cup her breasts, gently, reverently, and my hands shake as I trace circles over her skin. She’s warm and pliant, already breathing faster; her nipples are already pebbling under my thumbs. Her head arches back, and she closes her eyes for the first time, not in fear but in surrender. I kiss her there, down her sternum, over her stomach, and she makes a whimper that almost undoes me.
When I hook my fingers into the waistband of her shorts, I pause, waiting for her signal. She doesn’t hesitate. She lifts her hips for me, offering herself. I slide them off, then kneel between her knees, just looking. She’s exposed, trembling, but not from fear. There’s a flush rising over her chest, a deep hunger that is battling scars, and I want to touch every part of her that he ever hurt.
