"I didn't want to," he continues, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. "I spent years building a wall so high I thought nothing could get over it. I thought I was done with this shit. And then you walked into my life and you just... you took it all down. Piece by goddamn piece."
I love him.
The realization is a scream in my head.
I love the man I’m supposed to be killing. I love the Butcher who just told me I’m his quiet space.
I don't say it back. I can't. The words are trapped behind the silver wolf charm and the countdown clock. But I don't retreat. I step toward him instead, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. I pull his head down, my mouth meeting his in a kiss that isn't about lust or power. It’s about a desperate, starving need for connection.
"Please, Rafael. Just... keep me here," I whisper against his lips.
He groans, a low, primal sound, and lifts me off my feet. He’s still wounded, his shoulder still bandaged, but he doesn't seem to care. He carries me to the bed, laying me down with a tenderness that makes my throat ache.
"I want to feel you. All of you. I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” I say.
The zip yields. The dress falls open, a pool of fabric around my hips. His eyes drink me in, dark and hungry and full of something I can’t name—something softer than possession, sharper than lust. He leans down, his mouth finding mine again.
This kiss starts slow. A soft press of lips. A tasting. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, and I open for him. Our tongues meet, a hot, wet slide that sends a shudder straight through my center. I moan into him, my hands clutching his hair, pulling him deeper. The kiss turns urgent, messy. We’re breathing each other’s air, sharing saliva, losing ourselves in the wet, frantic connection. His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, down my neck. He sucks there, a sharp, delicious pressure that makes me moan.
“Gia,” he rasps, his mouth moving lower.
He kisses my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts. His hands push the dress away completely, leaving me bare. He looks at me, his gaze a physical touch. “You’re fucking stunning,” he says, the words rough and honest.
Then his mouth is on my breast. Not just a kiss. He takes my nipple into his mouth, suckling hard, his tongue circling the tight peak. The sensation is a lightning strike. A sharp, sweet ache that radiates out, making my stomach clench and my thighs tremble. I cry out, a ragged sound. “Fuck, Rafael… right there.”
He moves to the other breast, same treatment, same devastating effect. His hands aren’t idle. One palm skims down my ribs, over my hip, to the outside of my thigh. His fingers dig into my flesh, holding me open for him. The other hand strokes my stomach, lower, lower, until his thumb finds my clit.
He doesn’t just brush it. He presses. A firm, deliberate circle that makes my whole body jerk. “You’re so wet for me,” he growls, his mouth still working my breast. “I can feel it. I want to taste it.”
He shifts, sliding down my body. His kisses become a trail—my stomach, the sensitive skin just above my hip bone, the inside of my thigh. Each kiss is a brand. Each one makes me gasp. He’s mapping me, claiming me with his mouth.
Then he’s there. Between my legs. He looks up at me, his eyes black with want. “Tell me what you want, Gia.”
“I want your mouth on me,” I pant. “I want you to lick my clit until I scream. I want you to fuck me with your tongue.”
A dark smile touches his lips.“Good.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth descends. The first touch of his lips on my clit is soft, exploratory. Then his tongue finds me. A broad, wet stroke from bottom to top. I buck against him. His tongue circles, firm and fast. The pressure is perfect—not gentle, not brutal. Insistent. Demanding. He licks me like he’s consuming me, like this is his only purpose. One hand spreads me wider. The other slides up to palm my breast again, squeezing, matching the rhythm of his tongue.
The pleasure builds in thick, hot waves. It’s not a slow tide now; it’s a storm surge. My hips roll against his face, seeking more. I’m moaning, cursing, my fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “Yes… fuck… just like that… don’t stop…”
He doesn’t stop. His tongue fucks me, deep and slick, then focuses back on my clit, a relentless, pinpoint assault. My back arches. The world narrows to this bed, to his mouth, to the exquisite, coiling tension in my core. I’m close. So close.
He feels it. He pulls back, his mouth glistening. “Not yet,” he says, voice thick. “I want you coming on my cock.”
He moves up my body, his knees settling between my thighs. He’s still mostly dressed, his pants open, his cock hard and flushed, standing out against his stomach. He looks at me, his eyes holding mine. “Look at me, Gia.”
I look. I see the raw vulnerability there, the dark surrender of a man who’s given up his armor. I see the future I’m about to destroy.
He reaches down, guiding himself. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and blunt. He pushes in. Not a fast thrust. A slow, inexorable penetration that fills me inch by inch.I feel every millimeter of him stretching me, claiming the wet, clutching heat inside. It’s deeper than before. More complete.
“You feel fucking incredible,” he grits out, his hips finally flush against mine. He’s all the way in. I’m full of him.
He starts to move. Slow, deep withdrawals, then even deeper returns. Each thrust is a deliberate possession. His hands frame my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. Our gazes stay locked. This isn’t just fucking. It’s a conversation. A confession without words.
The friction is exquisite. A building, grinding pleasure that starts deep inside and spreads outward, warming my skin, tightening my muscles. I meet his thrusts, rising to meet him, taking him deeper. My nails scrape down his back.
“Harder,” I plead. “Fuck me harder, Rafael.”
