My hands slid around to her back, finding the zipper of that burgundy silk dress that had been taunting me all evening. I pulled it down slowly, watching the fabric loosen and fall away from her body. The dress slipped from her shoulders, the silk cascading down to pool at her feet like spilled wine.
No bra. Just bare skin and a scrap of lace at her hips.
I stepped back for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. Three years hadn't dulled my memory of this body, but seeing it again—real, present, mine—was something else entirely.
I pressed my body against hers, feeling the softness of her curves against my athletic frame. My skin slid against hers, a sensation that sent shivers down my spine.
I kissed the hollow of her throat, my lips trailing down her neck, savoring the taste of her skin. Her hands gripped my shoulders, her nails digging into me as if to anchor herself to the moment. I could feel her heart racing, her breath coming in short gasps, and it fueled my desire.
My mouth moved lower, my lips finding the sensitive spot just below her left breast, where a tiny birthmark marked her skin like a claim.
The same birthmark I'd kissed three years ago in Miami. Proof.
I sucked gently, my tongue swirling around the spot, savoring the confirmation. She moaned, her head falling back, exposing her neck—the same response she'd given me then, when she'd been Celia, and I'd been Antonio.
"Fuck, Cassian," she breathed, her voice thick with need.
I smirked against her skin, knowing exactly how to unravel her. My hands moved to her waist, my fingers hooking into the lace of her panties. With a swift, impatient motion, I tore them aside, the fabric giving way easily.
Her legs fell open for me, her wet heat beckoning. I didn't bother with foreplay—not tonight. I needed to feel her, to know if this was real or just a ghost of what we'd had. I positioned myself between her thighs, my throbbing cock teasing her entrance.
"You know how to make me beg, don't you?" she whispered, her eyes dark with desire.
I didn't answer. Instead, I thrust into her in one hard stroke, her walls gripping me like a vice. Her pussy was tight and hot, a perfect fit around my cock.
She gasped, her head falling back against the marble wall, and I fucked her with a desperation born of three years of wondering if she'd forgotten me. Her hands tangled in my dark hair, pulling me downfor a kiss that was anything but gentle. Our mouths collided, tongues dueling as I pounded into her, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the penthouse.
I reached between us, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in time with my thrusts. She cried out, her body tensing as her orgasm ripped through her.
"Cassian, please—" she pleaded, but I didn't stop. I fucked her through it, milking her climax, her pussy clenching around me like a fist.
As my own release built, I pulled out, gripping her hips as I turned her around, pressing her against the wall.
"On your knees," I growled, my voice rough with need. She didn't hesitate. She dropped to the floor, her curvy ass in the air, her body still glistening from our earlier fuck.
I didn't give her time to catch her breath. I slammed into her from behind, her tight pussy swallowing me whole. She moaned, her voice muffled against the carpet.
"Take it," I commanded, and she did, her body surrendering to mine as I fucked her relentlessly, my balls slapping against her ass with each thrust.
I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back as I whispered in her ear, "Tell me, Isla. Do you remember?" Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she didn't answer. Instead, she pushed back against me, meeting my thrusts, her body speaking what her mouth wouldn't.
I was close, so fucking close, and I didn't care if she remembered or not. I just needed her. Needed this. I let go of her hair, bracing my hands on the wall as I pounded into her one last time, my orgasm exploding, my cum shooting deep inside her.
She moaned my name as I finished—not "Mr. Barone" or "Cassian," but "Cass."
I stilled,the intimacy of it striking me like a blow.
Cass.
Not the formal name my business associates used. Not even the full name that my family called me. But the shortened version—intimate, personal. The name that only people close to me were permitted to use.
And she'd never asked permission.
She'd just said it, breathless and natural, as if she'd called me that a thousand times before. As if we had that kind of history.
But we didn't. Not as far as she'd admitted.
In Miami, I'd been Antonio. She'd been Celia. Fake names, fake identities. Back then, she didn't know my real name. I didn't know hers.
