“Watch,” I command.
“I’m not looking away,” she breathes, her voice unsteady. She’s watching now. She likes watching me bring her to the edge. I grin against her skin.
“Good girl.” I blow on her clit then suck it hard and she shatters.
Her pretty brown eyes stay locked on mine the entire time—lips parting, cheeks flushed, nipples tightening into stiff, perfect peaks, her pussy weeping for me as her body releases, over and over andover.
Years of tension unravel, spilling out of her in an orgasm I’ve never felt before. I know—I know—some of it is tied to that piece-of-shit ex-husband and all the trauma he left behind, but in this moment, all of that fades away and makes me think she’s coming this hard because it’s me.
I hold her up through it, kissing her clit, her inner thighs, the soft curve of her stomach—gentle, reverent—easing her back down from the high of her release. She watches me through it all, panting, spent, and then—tears.
They spill silently down her face, catching in her thick, dark lashes, mixing with the water that’s streaming from the showerhead. She tries to blink them away, tries to hold herself together, stifle any noise that she’s making, but I see it, and I hear the soft gasps from her taking in too much air.
I feel it.
Because I’ve been there too. I know what it’s like to stare at the wreckage of a marriage you thought was going to last forever.To ask yourself a hundred impossible questions you’ll never get an answer to:
What went wrong?
How did everything I pictured for my future just… disappear in an instant?
Was it my fault?
Could I have prevented it somehow?
How did I not see this coming?
Maybe it’s still too fresh for her to see the horizon. Maybe she’s not ready to hear the truth yet. Her pride is too strong, her walls still half-standing. I don’t say anything about the tears. I don’t press to find out what she’s thinking. I don’t want her to ever feel self-conscious with me or like she needs to hide.
I just let herbe. Because I get it.
I set her feet down firmly on the shower floor, brush a damp strand of hair away from her pretty face, tucking it gently behind her ear. My fingers cradle her jaw, thumb skimming over the sharp edge of her cheekbones and then across her lips. The prettiest lips I’ve ever been able to kiss.
I meet her eyes.
“Take it from someone ten years out from his divorce,” I say, voice softer. “You’re stronger than you think you are. It gets better.”
She nods quickly, trying to take a deep breath, but it stutters out in a broken, little, gargled hiccup that only makes the tears fall harder.
“Eventually,” I continue, smoothing my thumb along her skin, grounding her to calm her racing heart, “you stop wondering what went wrong and start seeing all that went right. You’re alright. And you’re going to be okay.”
She bites down on her lower lip, blinking hard, trying to stopthe fresh wave of tears. Another nod from her, tighter this time.
I exhale, shifting my weight slightly. My cock is hard, my balls tight, my whole body wired with the need for a release, but I’m going to put all that aside because tonight doesn’t feel like the time to take care of my physical needs. And I care more about Alessia’s emotional well-being than anything else.
“Look,” I run my fingers through my damp hair, “how about we stop here.”
Her fingers tighten around my biceps, nails biting into my skin, and when I search her gaze for hesitation, I findnone.
“No,” she whispers. “I want you. We’re finishing this.”
There’s no waver in her voice. The tears are gone now, replaced by something else.Something sure and determined.
She swallows once. Lifts her chin. “I want you, Gabriel.Fuck me tonight.Please. I don’t want to stop this. I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.”
I let out a slow breath, steadying myself. “Alessia.”
She shakes her head again. “You said you’d follow my lead. This is my lead.”
