"Because I asked you to." His eyes met mine. Dark and full of guilt. "I wanted you to see all of it. To understand what my world really looks like. But I didn't think about what it would cost you to witness it."
I pulled him down to me. Kissed him to stop the apology I could feel building. "I'm still here. That hasn't changed."
"I know. That's what terrifies me." His mouth found my neck. "That you'd still choose this. Still choose me. After seeing what you saw tonight."
"Always." I arched into his touch. "Stop apologizing and show me something beautiful. Remind me that there's more to your world than what I witnessed tonight."
He made a sound low in his throat—half groan, half surrender. Then his mouth was on mine and he was kissing me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning.
There was desperation in the kiss. Apology and need and something that felt like fear. Fear that I'd pull away. That I'd realize what I'd signed up for and run.
I kissed him back with equal intensity. Showing him I wasn't going anywhere. That I'd meant what I said. That loving him meant accepting all of it—the beauty and the ugliness intertwined.
His hands mapped my body with exquisite slowness. Learning me all over again. Like he needed to memorize every response. Every place that made me gasp. Every touch that made me arch.
"Sandro—" His name came out breathless. Pleading.
"I've got you." His mouth moved lower. Kissed down my chest. My stomach. "Let me take care of you. Let me make this good."
He took me in his mouth and I stopped thinking about auctions and stolen art and people being sold like property. There was only sensation. Only pleasure. Only Sandro's mouth and hands worshipping me like I was sacred.
When I was trembling and desperate, he pulled back. Reached for supplies. Prepared me with gentle fingers that took their time. That made sure I was ready. That prioritized my pleasure over his own need.
"I need you," I gasped. "Please—"
"I know. I've got you." He positioned himself. Pushed inside slowly. Carefully. Watching my face for any sign of discomfort.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him deeper. "Don't hold back. I'm not fragile."
"Tonight you are." He kissed me softly. "Tonight I need to be gentle with you. Need to prove that this—" he moved, slow and deep, "—is real. That what we have is beautiful."
He made love to me with a tenderness I'd never experienced before. Long, slow strokes that built heat gradually. That weren't about reaching the peak but about the journey there. About connection more than release.
His hands framed my face. His eyes stayed locked on mine. Like he was trying to pour everything he felt into the physical connection. Everything he couldn't articulate with words.
"I love you," he said against my mouth. "God, Emilio, I love you so much it scares me."
"I love you too." I pulled him closer. Deeper. "Don't be scared. We're in this together."
"Together." He repeated it like a vow. Then he shifted angles and hit that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyes.
I cried out. Dug my nails into his shoulders. He did it again. And again. Building the pressure until I was shaking with it.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let go. I've got you."
When I came, it was with his name on my lips and his eyes on mine and the certain knowledge that this—this intimacy, this connection, this love—was worth every compromise I'd made to have it.
He followed moments later. Buried deep inside me. Shuddering with the force of his release. My name a broken prayer against my neck.
Afterward, he held me close. Both of us breathing hard. Sweaty and satisfied and utterly undone.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For still being here. For not running. For choosing this even after seeing the worst of my world."
I turned in his arms to face him. "The worst of your world doesn't change the best of you. And you—this—" I gestured between us, "—this is the best thing I've ever had."
