"I don't have any condom here." He murmurs
"Get inside me Damiano" I moan.
"Are you sure, Zoe?" Damiano says, his forehead pressed to mine. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes," I gasp, arching into him. "Please, Damiano. I need you."
With a growl, Damiano sheaths himself inside me.
Our bodies rock together, lost in a primal rhythm. Damiano's hands grip my hips, driving into me with deep, powerful strokes.
My world narrows to the feel of him inside me, the drag of his skin against mine, the harsh rasp of his breath in my ear. I can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my belly, my body winding tighter and tighter like a spring.
"Damiano," I keen, my voice high and thin. "I'm going to...I can't..."
"Do it, Zoe," Damiano growls, his thrustsbecoming erratic.
I shatter with a scream, my body convulsing around him as my orgasm crashes over me.
We cling to each other as we came down from our high, our bodies still joined, our hearts racing in tandem. Damiano pressed soft kisses to my face, my neck, my shoulders.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Istep under the hot spray of the shower, letting the water fall over my body and wash away the sweat and dirt from the shooting range. My muscles ache pleasantly as I reach for the shampoo, working it into my hair.
The house is quiet with Damiano gone. He'd kissed me quickly before heading out, mentioning something about grabbing groceries for lunch. "I'll cook for you," he'd said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
I close my eyes, letting the water run over my face.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair. The bathroom is all vintage tiles and fixtures, preserved from decades ago when Damiano's parents lived here.
The Damiano from Byron's files – the cold-blooded killer, the ruthless don – seems disconnected from the man who held me last night. The man who looked at me with something like wonder in his eyes when he said he was falling for me.
I hear the front door open and close downstairs. Damiano is back. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. One step at a time.
I help Damiano in the kitchen, chopping vegetables while he seasons chicken breast. We skipped breakfast focusing on dinner instead. The domesticity feels strange—almost normal—in stark contrast to the deadly precision with which he handled his gun just hours ago.
"You're good with a knife," Damiano observes, watching my hands work.
"Byron believed proper knife skills were part of a lady's education," I say, the lie slipping easily from my lips. In truth, Byron had taught me how to wield a knife for more lethal purposes than dicing peppers.
"You mentioned I had nightmares again," he says suddenly, his voice low. "Does that happen often?"
I set down my knife. "More than you probably realize. Sometimes you call out in your sleep."
"What do I say?" His back is to me, shoulders tense.
"Mostly just sounds. But sometimes... you call for Bianca."
The wooden spoon in his hand stills. For a moment, I think he might break it, his knuckles white with pressure.
"Who was she?" I ask, though I already know from Byron's files. I need to hear it from him.
"My fiancée." The words come out rough, like they're being torn from him. "She was pregnant when she died."
My heart pounds in my chest. "How did she die?"
Damiano takes a deep breath, still facing the stove. "Twelve years ago. Thanksgiving night. We were at our country house upstate. A man broke in." He pauses, adding the vegetables I've chopped. "I killed one of them, but the other... he shot her before I could stop him."
