Her breath shudders out of her. Not weakness. Relief.
I lift her onto the bed. The sheets are clean and plain. They don’t match her. Nothing matches her. That’s fine. She doesn’t need matching. She needs holding.
“My pace,” I remind her, not because I’m afraid she’ll forget, but because I need the ritual to stay between us like a knife I control. “One word stops me.”
“Nemico,” she whispers, eyes searching mine.
A word she won’t use. Enemy.
“No longer, Amore?” I ask.
Her eyelidsflutter, her lip curves, and I’m in amore.
"Amore mio," she whispers, the words a soft caress that mirrors my earlier text. Mirrors the ache in my chest.
I don’t give her the whole of me at once. I make her feel the restraint first, because restraint is the only thing that turns a dangerous man into something a woman can trust. My hand cups her neck, not forcing, just holding her exactly where I want her, exactly where she wants to be held. Her breath catches like she’s remembering what I am and choosing it anyway.
I kiss her throat. Her collarbone. The soft hollow beneath her ear. Her breasts deserve all the attention they can get. My hands move slow, not because I lack hunger, but because I want her to feel the difference between being taken and being cherished. Between violence and devotion.
And I let her feel it, too. The edge of what I could do, the promise that I won’t. I take my time like I’m teaching her body a new language, one where control is worship and hunger is permission. My thumb drags over her clit in a line that makes her shiver, and I keep my mouth right at her pulse so she knows I’m listening to every betrayal her body gives me.
She makes a sound into my shoulder that is half laugh, half ache.
“You’re careful,” she says.
“Because I’m not safe,” I say, and the honesty lands like a hand squeezing her throat even before it does. Then I give her the part she asked for. A strangle hold that claims but is also a question.
She nods.
“I’m learning,” I answer. “You make me want to learn.”
And I mean it the way men like me mean things. If the city comes for her, I will burn the streets down to ash and call it cleanup. If her father forgets himself again, he will learn what it feels like to lose control of a room. If anyone tries to put hands on her like she’s an object, I will take those hands clean off, teach them the difference between ownership and consequence.
She slides her fingers through my hair, tugs gently, guiding my mouth back to hers. She kisses me again and the day falls away. The docks can wait for a few hours. The Commission can choke on its own dignity later. In this room above a tailor, we get to be human.
But even human, I don’t let her forget what she is to me.
Mine, if she wants it. Mine, because she chose it. Mine, because I refuse to let anyone else write that word over her like a brand.
I step out of my pants.My dick is naked against her soft flesh. There’s nothing between us when I slide into her, not even sheepskin, and we both know exactly what we’re risking.
I don’t thrust right away. I stay buried in her and still, hand at her hip, the other at her throat, and I make her feel every second of my cock, waiting. The pressure. The fullness. The way I can move and don’t, because I want her to understand that I’m the one holding back, not because I’m weak, but because I’m strong enough to stop.
“Look at me,” I murmur, and it’s not a command. It’s a tether. A way to keep her here with me instead of letting the fear crawl in and steal the moment.
She does. She holds my gaze like she’s daring me to turn into every man who ever hurt her.
I don’t.
I shove my cock into her until her breath catches and my name breaks in her mouth. I keep my touch grounded. I keep my focus on her face, on the way her eyes close and open again, on the way her thighs open, and she wraps her legs around me.
She’s proving to herself that she can have something soft without it becoming a weapon in someone else’s hand.
I make itslow on purpose. I take her to the edge and hold her there, not cruelly, but deliberately, like I’m teaching her body that pleasure can be controlled and still be safe. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and her hips buck, trying to chase what I’m denying her.
“Good girl,” I tell her, low, against her mouth. Praise like a brand. “Stay with me. Breathe. That’s it.”
She whimpers, and it hits something vicious and tender in my chest. I tighten my grip at her hip, keep her exactly where I want her, and when she tries to rush, I stop again. Not punishment. Discipline. Devotion.
