"I don't care about perfect. I just care about you."
When we finally pulled into the parking garage of our building, relief flooded through me. Home. Really home.
We took the elevator up to the penthouse in silence, both vibrating with tension. The doors opened directly into our space and I stepped inside.
Everything was familiar. The windows overlooking the city. The furniture we'd picked out together. The kitchen where we'd cooked breakfast. Home.
"I can't believe you're really here," Valentino said from behind me. "In our home. Not across a table."
I turned to face him. "Come here."
He crossed to me and I pulled him close, just holding him. Breathing him in. Feeling his heartbeat against my chest. Real. Solid. Mine.
"I missed you," I said into his hair. "Every fucking day. Every moment. I missed you so much."
"I missed you too. So much." He pulled back to look at me. "I love you."
"I love you too." I cupped his face. "And right now, I need to take you to bed and remind us both exactly what we survived for."
Heat flared in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I kissed him hard. "A year, Valentino. A year of wanting you. I'm going to make up for every single day."
We barely made it to the bedroom.
I was kissing him, walking him backward, desperate to get my hands on him properly. He was pulling at my clothes—the same clothes I'd worn into prison twelve months ago, everything else lost to time.
"Off," he demanded, tugging at my shirt. "Get these off."
I pulled the shirt over my head. He immediately ran his hands over my chest, my shoulders, mapping muscle and skin like he was relearning me.
"You're thinner," he said. "Prison food?"
"Didn't have much appetite without you." I pulled his shirt off too, needing skin. "God, look at you. You're so fucking beautiful."
We stumbled to the bed, shedding the rest of our clothes in a desperate tangle. When we were finally both naked, I pressed him down into the mattress and just looked.
A year. A year since I'd seen him like this. Since I'd touched him. Since I'd made him mine.
"Luca." His voice was rough with need. "Please."
"I know. I know." I settled between his legs, running my hands up his thighs. "But I want to take my time. Savor this. Savor you."
"I need—" He broke off when I kissed his inner thigh. "Fuck."
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Just you. However you want me."
However I wanted him. God, the possibilities.
I kissed up his thigh, deliberately avoiding where he wanted me most. Mapped his hip, his stomach, his ribs. Every inch of skin I'd dreamed about for twelve months. He was writhing beneath me, desperate, making the most incredible sounds.
"Please," he begged. "Luca, please—"
I finally gave him what he wanted, taking him in my mouth, and he cried out. His hands fisted in my hair, hips trying to thrust up. I held him down, controlled the pace, relearned the taste and feel of him.
"God, yes, just like that—" His words dissolved into incoherent sounds as I worked him closer and closer to the edge.
