He explores my body like it's the first time. Fingers tracing patterns on my skin. Mouth following the path of his hands. When he reaches my breasts, he takes his time, kissing and sucking until I'm arching into him.
"Please," I breathe.
"Not yet."
He moves lower, pressing kisses down my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. When his mouth finds me, I gasp.
This isn't like before, when he made me come as a means to an end. This is worship. Devotion. Like my pleasure is the point, not just preparation.
I come apart under his mouth, crying out his name.
He moves back up my body, settling between my thighs. Enters me slowly, carefully, watching my face the whole time.
"Okay?" he asks.
I nod, pulling him closer. "I've missed you," I admit.
He moves with aching slowness. Each thrust deliberate. Measured. His forehead rests against mine, and we breathe the same air.
"Gemma," he says my name like a prayer.
Our eyes lock, and I see something in his that makes my chest ache. Something vulnerable. Real.
"I—" He stops himself. Swallows hard.
"What?" My heart is pounding.
"Nothing. Just...you're perfect. This is perfect."
I want to tell him I love him. The words are right there, pressing against my teeth.
But I swallow them back. Too dangerous. Too real.
Instead, I kiss him, pouring everything I can't say into the contact.
We move together, slow and sweet, until we both shatter. And afterward, he doesn't pull away. Just holds me, face buried in my neck.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "I've got you."
For the first time in six months, I feel safe.
The next morning, I wake to find him already up, standing at the window with his phone pressed to his ear. His shoulders are tight.
"Understood," he says. "I'll be back tonight."
He hangs up, and when he turns to me, the softness from last night is gone. His face is carefully blank.
"What's wrong?"
"That was the doctor. Antonio's taken a turn. He's declining faster than they expected." He runs a hand through his hair. "We need to go back."
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe less." His jaw tightens. "I thought we had more time. When I left, he was…" he searches for the word, "alert."
Guilt crashes over me like a wave. Antonio is dying, and I've been playing games with Alexei. Making deals that could destroy everything right when Saint needs stability most.
What have I done?
