For every crooked, sharp-edged piece of me nobody else ever wanted unless they were getting something back.
Something finally gives.
A last defense I didn’t know I was still holding.
It collapses.
All the way.
“Then you’ve got me,” I say.
His eyes open. They show no priest, judge, or soldier.
Just a man staring at the one thing he never thought he could keep.
One hand leaves my hip to slide up my spine, fingers finding the back of my neck. He cups it—firm, possessive, careful—and draws me down.
The kiss is slow.
Not lust.
Something deeper.
Something that doesn’t end when our mouths part—it just keeps burning under my skin.
His mouth moves over mine with the reverence reserved for prayers you actually believe in. My fingers tangle in his hair—not to control, just to feel. To anchor. To prove I’m here. That this is real. That I’m not strapped to a chair somewhere hallucinating a life I’ll never see.
The room breathes with us, alive in a way that feels like an extension of our own skin. The exposed beams above us cast long shadows that stretch and bend with the flicker of the battered lamp in the corner, its light pooling in the hollows of Santino’s collarbone, the dip of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw. It’s the kind of light that turns everything to gold, that makes his dark hair look like it’s threaded with fire when I run my fingers through it.
I’m half-curled against him again, my body molded to his like we’ve been poured into this shape together. Santino’s hand, back on my hip, tightens imperceptibly, his fingers flexing against the curve of my waist. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The way his thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle against the bare skin just above the waistband speaks volumes.
I tilt my head back, pressing my lips to the underside of his jaw. His stubble is rough against my mouth, the kind of abrasion that makes my skin tingle. He turns his face toward mine, his breath warm against my cheek, and when his hand leaves my hip, I already know where it’s going. His fingers slide up my spine, each vertebra a stepping stone beneath his touch, until he reaches the nape of my neck. He cups it—firm, possessive, his thumb pressing into the pulse point beneath my ear—and I melt into him, my body going pliant, my breath hitching.
He draws me down, and I go willingly, my lips parting as our mouths meet. The kiss is slow. Not the kind of slow that’s cautious or hesitant, but the kind that feels like the world has stopped spinning just to let us catch up. His lips move over mine with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like I’m something precious, something he’s afraid of breaking. His tongue slides against mine, deep and unhurried, tasting me like I’m the last drop of water in a desert. I moan into his mouth, the sound low and needy, my fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide him, but to ground myself. To remind myself that this is real. That I’m here. That I’m not lost in some fractured memory, some half-remembered dream.
His other hand finds my waist, his fingers splaying wide, pressing into the softness there like he’s memorizing the shape of me. I arch into his touch, my breasts brushing against his chest, the thin fabric of my dress doing little to hide the way my nipples tighten under his attention. He groans, the sound vibrating against my lips, and his hand slides upward, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast. I whimper, my back arching, pressing myself into his touch, and he rewards me by cupping my breast fully, his thumb flicking over my nipple through the fabric. The sensation is sharp, electric, and I gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice rough, like gravel under slow footsteps. “Every time I touch you, it’s like the first time.”
I can’t answer. My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps, my body humming with need. His mouth leaves mine, trailing down to my jaw, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin just below my ear. I tilt my head to give him better access, a shiver running through me as his breath ghosts over my pulse point. His teeth graze my collarbone, just enough to make me gasp, and his chuckle is dark, knowing.
“Cold?” he asks, his lips brushing against my skin.
I shake my head, my fingers clutching at his shoulders. “No.”
His hand slides up my thigh, his fingers brushing against the hem of my dress, pushing it upward slowly, inch by inch. The air hits my bare skin, cool against the heat of his touch, and I shiver, my body arching into him. His fingers trace the lace edge of my panties, teasing me, his touch feather-light. “So wet for me already,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends another shiver through me.
I nod, my hips shifting restlessly, seeking more contact. “Always.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down my legs, leaving me bare to him. His gaze drops between my thighs, and I can feel myself flush under his attention, my body aching, my skin prickling with anticipation. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “So fucking perfect.”
I reach for him, tugging on his sweatpants. He helps me, lifting his hips so I can pull the fabric down, freeing his cock. It’s thick and heavy in my hand, the skin soft over the hard length of him, and I stroke him once, twice, my thumb brushing over the slick head. He groans, his head falling back against the wall, his hands gripping my hips.
With a sultry smile, I lick a slow, deliberate path up Santino's cock, savoring the taste of his pre-cum before taking him fully into my mouth. I use my hands to cup his balls, massaging them gently as I suck him with a steady, intoxicating rhythm, feeling his body tighten and his cock twitch in response.
“Pia,” he growls, his voice strained.
As I pull back, my lips glide up his shaft, leaving a trail of wet kisses, and I whisper, 'Is this good?' My voice husky with desire. I shift, pressing a kiss to his hip, then trail my tongue along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, watching his body archwith anticipation, before finally returning to his cock, taking him deep once more.
