“Don’t move,” I instruct when he tries to thrust upward. “This isn’t about getting off. I just… I need to feel you. All of you.”
Understanding dawns in his expression. His hands gentle on my hips, no longer guiding or demanding, just holding. “Tell me what you need.”
“I want to know exactly what happened,” I say, leaning forward to rest my forehead against his. “After you got me out. I need to know everything.”
He takes a breath, his cock pulsing inside me with each beat of his heart. “I carried you to my car. You were unconscious, bleeding.” His voice tightens. “I thought… for a second, I thought you were gone.”
I clench around him involuntarily, my body’s response to the raw emotion in his voice. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I brought you here. Called our doctor—”
“Your doctor,” I correct, rolling my hips slightly, just enough to remind us both of our connection.
“The Russo family doctor,” he amends. “He patched us both up and said you had a concussion, bruised ribs, and a sprained wrist. That you needed rest.”
His thumb traces my lower lip.
“Don’t you remember waking up while he touched your ribs?” I shake my head, not remembering that at all. “Well, you did. And you cursed him out. I’ve been watching you ever since, waiting for you to wake up.”
“How long?” I whisper.
“It’s been twenty-six hours and eighteen minutes,” he says without hesitation. “You’ve woken up a few times, but went straight back to sleep. The doctor said your body would let you know when it was ready to wake up completely.”
I blink, caught off guard by the precision. “You counted?”
“Every second.” His admission hangs between us, more intimate somehow than our physical connection.
I rock against him, not seeking release but needing to be closer, impossibly closer. “I want a part of you inside me always,” I whisper, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. “Like a piece of you that nobody else can touch or take away.”
His eye widens fractionally, then darkens with something possessive and hungry. “You already have it,” he growls, leaning forward to capture my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises neither of us has the words to make.
We stay like that, connected and still, until the water begins to cool. No urgent thrusting, no desperate race toward climax—just the quiet certainty of being exactly where we belong.
Later, after he helps me from the tub and wraps me in a towel large enough to be a blanket, I notice the counter. My specific brand of face wash. The pink toothbrush beside his black one. The bottle of French perfume I’ve been rationing since I left Paris.
“You brought my things here,” I say, picking up the perfume. “When?”
“While you were sleeping.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, suddenly looking almost nervous. “Piper cleaned out your apartment together with Lorenzo.”
“My entire apartment?” I turn to face him fully. “No, please say no. I don’t want Lorenzo to have seen my toys.”
“I’m sure Piper packed those.” He shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Your clothes are in the closet. Books are on the shelf in the bedroom. I wasn’t sure where you’d want the rest, so it’s in boxes in a spare room.”
Something about the casual way he’s rearranged my life should piss me off. But instead, it feels right. Inevitable, even. Like we’ve been moving toward this moment since he first broke into my apartment and claimed that ridiculous favor.
“Are you asking me to move in with you, Psycho Bastard?” I tease, using the nickname I gave him in my phone.
“No.” No hesitation, no playful deflection. Just that single syllable, direct and uncompromising. “I’m telling you, we already live together.”
I blink, caught off guard by his bluntness. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He steps closer, hands settling on my hips. “Stay here. With me. Where I can keep you safe.”
I should argue about not needing protection. Should bristle at the presumption. Should at least pretend to think about it.
Instead, I rise on my toes, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” I say simply.
His eye narrow, suspicion written across his features. “Okay?”
