“Don’t stop,” she pants. “I’m not done.”
“Good,” I growl, gripping her waist. “Because I’m not either.”
I thrust up into her hard enough to make her scream. I grab her ass with both hands and fuck into her like she’s mine. Her moans get higher. She’s close again; I can feel it.
I sit up, wrap my arm around her back, and grab her throat.
“Come for me again,” I whisper, fucking her faster.
She does. Loud. Shaking. Her pussy spasms around me, and that’s it. I groan deep in my chest and spill inside her, holding her there while I pump every last drop into her.
We’re soaked. Fucked-out. My cum leaks from her as she collapses on top of me. I don’t say anything. I just hold her. She’s still trembling. Then I pick her up and carry her to her room bridal-style with one hand, her heels in the other.
She doesn’t fight it, just lets me set her down. I make the mistake of brushing the hairs out of her face. Her hand grips my wrist just as I turn to leave her room.
“Are you going to leave?” she asks, voice emotionless.
I look at her. “Yeah.”
She looks away. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t ask why. But I feel it. Like maybe I gave her hope when I shouldn’t have.
And maybe she’ll keep wishing for something I can’t give her. Whether I want her or not.
35
MARA
The nightmare yanks me awake. Cold sweat, shallow breath, heart thudding like it’s trying to crawl out of my chest.
For a second, I don’t even remember where I am. The dark looks different in this room; it doesn’t belong to me. Nothing here does.
The clock on the nightstand glows 3:17 a.m. The rain’s started again, soft this time, whispering against the window. Duchess is asleep on the chair, tail flicking with every gust of wind. I push the blanket off, feet hitting the cold floor. My throat feels like sandpaper.
I tell myself I just need water. That’s all.
The hallway is half-lit, shadows stretching long across the stone floor. Every sound feels too loud: my own footsteps, the hum of the refrigerator when I reach the kitchen.
He’s already there.
Nicolo leans against the counter, one hand around a glass, the other braced against the edge of the sink. Vodka. Half-full. No ice. His shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There’s tension in every line of him, like even standing still is work.
His eyes flick up when I step in. “You shouldn’t be wandering around at this hour.”
I grab a glass from the rack and fill it at the tap. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I take a sip, ignoring the way his voice scratches through the quiet. “I was thirsty.”
It’s half-true.
He studies me. Not the kind of look that feels soft. The kind that sees too much.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just a bad dream.” I drink again. The water’s cold enough to sting.
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It’s heavy, charged. He sets the glass down and rubs the back of his neck…and for the first time, he doesn’t look carved out of iron. He looks tired.
