The tip drives into the wooden cutting board next to his hip.Thunk.The handle vibrates with the force of the blow. The blade catches the city light, a jagged line of silver separating us.
Alessandro doesn't flinch. He glances at the knife, then back at me. His pulse is visible in his throat, beating a steady rhythm against the skin I bruised last night.
"Are you finished?" he asks.
"No," I say. My voice is wrecked. "I'm not."
I look at him. I look at the composure that won't crack. I look at the mouth that speaks in complete sentences even when I’m holding a weapon.
And the anger shifts. It twists. It curdles into something else—something hot and heavy and desperate.
I grab his jaw. My thumb presses into the hinge, hard enough to hurt.
"You talk too much," I say.
I kiss him.
It’s not a romantic gesture. It’s violence by other means. I crash my mouth against his, grinding our lips together, punishing him for his calmness, punishing him for making me want him.
He freezes. For a second, he is rigid against the counter, his body rejecting the contact.
And then, he breaks.
A sound tears out of his throat—a low, desperate noise that vibrates against my lips. His hands fly up. They don't push me away. They grip my shoulders, the fabric of my t-shirt bunching in his fists. He pulls me closer.
His mouth opens. He tastes like mint and cool water and the lingering, metallic taste of adrenaline. I invade him. My tongue sweeps his mouth, rough and demanding. I bite his lower lip, tasting the copper tang of blood.
I lift him. I grab his hips and hoist him up onto the counter. He wraps his legs around my waist instantly, pulling me into the cradle of his thighs. The friction is immediate—jeans against wool, hard cock against hard cock.
I groan, burying my face in his neck. I find the sensitive spot under his ear and suck the skin, marking him, claiming him.
"Killian," he gasps. His voice is wrecked. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
"Shut up," I growl against his skin. "Don't think. Don't analyze."
"I... I can't..."
"Let me help you."
I pull back. I look at him.
His face is flushed. His lips are swollen, red, slick with saliva. His eyes are blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris. He looks unmade. He looks human.
"On your knees," I say.
The command falls into the silence.
Alessandro stares at me. He looks at the knife still quivering in the board. He looks at my hands, resting on his thighs.
He slides off the counter.
He moves slowly. Deliberately. He doesn't drop; he descends. He keeps his eyes on mine the entire way down, a silent challenge.I am doing this because I choose to.
His knees hit the floor.
He rests his hands on my thighs. The heat of his palms burns through the denim. He looks up at me. The city lights halo his head. He looks like a fallen angel. He looks like ruin.
My hands are shaking as I reach for my belt. I fumble with the buckle. The metal jingles, loud in the quiet kitchen. I shove my jeans and boxers down to my knees.
