“You’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “So fucking tight, amore.”
I moan, my nails digging into his skin. “It’s you,” I gasp. “You’re so big. You stretch me so good.”
He groans, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside me. “Fuck, Pia. You’re gonna make me come again.”
“Do it,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
He does. With a groan, his body tenses, his cock pulsing as he comes, his release hot and thick inside me. I clench aroundhim, my body milking him for every last drop, my own pleasure building, coiling tight in my belly.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice rough. “I want to feel you.”
I do. With a cry, my body clenches around him, pleasure crashing over me, wave after wave of it leaving me breathless, trembling. He collapses against me, his body heavy, his breath warm against my skin.
We stay like that for a long time, our bodies tangled together, our breaths slowly evening out, our hearts beating in time. The room is warm, the air thick with the scent of sex, of us. It’s perfect. We’re perfect.
And I never want to let it go.
When he finally pulls back, his breath is rough, forehead still resting against mine.
“Whatever comes next,” he whispers, “we take it together. No more you alone. No more me alone.”
My heart answers before my brain can argue.
Together.
It’s fucking terrifying.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.
Heaven, Hell, and Him
The kiss doesn’t stop.
It shifts.
What starts soft—careful, reverent—turns heavier in my chest, warmer in my veins. His mouth deepens on mine, not frantic, not wild, but sure. Like he’s decided something inside himself and now he’s letting his body speak it.
I breathe him in.
Pine and soap. Smoke caught on his shirt. Santino, stripped of blood and churches and war. Just him.
His hands slide from my waist up my spine, pulling me closer until there’s no doubt where I end and he begins. Our bodies fit like we’ve done this in a hundred lives already. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the hollow of my throat like he’s mapping something holy with his lips.
My knees go weak.
I fist his shirt, not to push away—never to push away—but to hold myself together.
“Santino,” I breathe against his mouth.
He answers by lifting me.
One smooth, solid motion. No strain. No hesitation. Like I weigh nothing. Like I’m the only thing he’d carry out of a burning world.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, my face tucking into the hot curve of his neck as he walks—steady, unhurried—down the short hall. Toward the back room. Toward the bedroom that still smells like clean wood and last night’s breath. Toward the place where the universe shrinks down to one bed, one man, one truth.
Rain starts tapping the roof as he nudges the door open with his foot.
Soft light spills over us. Warm sheets wait.
