“You were never innocent, Kira. That’s part of what I love about you.”
“I was naive about some things. About the cost of power, about what it really means to choose pragmatism over idealism.” I reach up to trace the line of his cheekbone. “After this, I won’t be. I’ll be someone who can order executions over breakfast and sleep soundly afterward.”
“Will that bother you?”
“Probably not. Which should bother me, but doesn’t.” I smile ruefully. “See what I mean about changing?”
“You’re not changing into someone unrecognizable. You’re just becoming more yourself—more of who you’ve always had the potential to be. It’s in your DNA. Hidden because your father sees you as a potential threat.” I take a deep breath. Does he know what my father said about him taking me out if I mess with his perfect plan to bring down the Rossos? What would he think, do, if he knew everything?
“And if who I have the potential to be scares people?”
“Then they’re not worth your concern.” His hands frame my face with careful reverence. “I’m not scared of your potential. I’m excited by it, and so should you.”
“Even if it means being married to someone more dangerous than you ever imagined?”
“You’re not dangerous. You are becoming the woman I know you were born to be. All I care is us, me standing beside you.”
The certainty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest—some final wall I’ve been maintaining between who I was and who I’m becoming. Between the careful distance I’ve always kept and the intimacy I’ve been afraid to fully embrace.
“Make love to me,” I whisper. “Before everything changes. Before I have to become someone who can’t afford this kind of vulnerability.”
His answer isn’t words.
It’s the way his hands cup my face like I’m something sacred. The way his mouth brushes over mine with slow reverence, not urgency. His kiss is an unraveling, not a claim like he’s memorizing me, piece by piece, in case I’m never quite this version of myself again.
He undresses me slowly, methodically, like he’s unwrapping something precious. Every button he slips free, every piece he eases off, is met with a kiss to bare skin. My shoulder. My ribs. The soft underside of my breast. The inside of my thigh. Worship, not just want.
He looks at me like he’s starving but refuses to rush the meal.
“You’re perfect. So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with something that almost sounds like awe.
By the time I’m laid bare on the bed, I’m trembling not with fear, but with the weight of being seen. Trulyseen.With his thumb, he traces my bottom lip. Then, his hand travels down my throat, leaving a trail of electricity behind. Rafa strokes my breasts with the back of his hand. My nipples instantly get hard. I close my eyes, giving in to every sensation I’m feeling.
“I’m going to suck you dry!”
Then he lowers himself between my legs, and everything fades. The plan. The war. The countdown. His words vibrate through my body. I lose myself in his eyes. There is hunger in his eyes. He covers my pussy before I take my next breath. I screamhis name the moment his mouth touches me. I’m seconds from an orgasm, and he hasn’t done a darn thing.
“All your screams and orgasms belong to me.” His voice vibrates, driving me wild.
I grip the sheets, searching for an anchor I will never find. I’m a slave to my desires, and Rafa is my keeper. But even as that thought flashes through me, I know the truth: I’m choosing this. I’m choosinghim.
He sucks harder, alternating with his tongue sliding in and out of my pussy. The sensation is so intense that I know it won’t be much longer. He slides two fingers and all it takes is two strokes.
The orgasm tears through me without mercy, my body arching, my mind going blank except for the way he holds me in place as if he refuses to let even my pleasure escape him.
He stays with me through it, coaxing every last tremor with devotion so intense it borders on unbearable. Not rushing. Not stopping. Like he wants to wring every last drop of surrender from me.
When he finally moves above me, slides into me with one long, aching thrust, the world goes still. Time. Stops. The first slow movement steals the air from my lungs. It isn’t frantic. It isn’t rushed. It’s claiming.
He slides inside me with slow, devastating precision, like this is the only thing that matters in the universe—this connection. This claiming. This moment stolen from chaos. My legs wrap around him, hands gripping his back. I let go of everything except how he makes me feel.
My legs wrap around him, hands gripping his back. I let go of everything except how he makes me feel. Wanted. Chosen. Loved.
Do I love Rafa?
The question hits me mid-breath.
Is this Love?
