Eventually, he might even love me again.
For two weeks, we keep fucking each other without ever talking about or acknowledging it. We never mean for it to happen, or at least I know he’s telling himself that. He fucks me on the kitchen table late at night again, when he comes home late and finds me sipping tea there. We pass each other in the hall one morning, and he grabs me and turns me around, pushing me up against it as he yanks my sleep shorts to one side and thrusts into me, fucking us both to quick, gasping orgasms before he pulls out and leaves me there. He comes into the bathroom one night while I’m showering and waits, watching me, toying with his cock through his sweatpants until I get out and he bends me over the counter, fucking me with his hand on the back of my neck while he watches me cry out for him in the mirror’s reflection.
It’s filthy, and it’s hot, and it has nothing to do with love or anything that I would ever have imagined would exist between us. It’s always charged with anger and resentment and desperation, rough and fast, tinged with something that feelslike punishment. It always feels, clearly, like we’re both seeking out something we need and can’t ask for outright. But there are brief, fleeting moments when something shifts.
Once or twice, his touch softens just slightly. His hand lingers on my skin after we're done, like he's not quite ready to let go. I cling to those moments and tell myself they mean something, that he's slowly forgiving me even if he won't admit it.
A week after he fucked me in the kitchen the first time, I’m in his bed. He caught me walking down the hallway as he was coming out of his room and pulled me inside, picking me up and tossing me onto the bed before stripping me bare. He’s thrusting inside me brutally, hands gripping my hips, his breathing harsh against my neck.
But then something changes. His rhythm slows, and his grip loosens. His mouth finds mine, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually kisses me.
"Giulia," he breathes against my lips, and there's something in his voice I haven't heard in weeks… something that sounds almost like longing.
I open my eyes and find him looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. The anger is still there, but it's mixed with something softer.
My pulse leaps. "Luca?—"
"Don't." He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "Don't say anything. Just?—"
He doesn't finish. He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel something crack in my chest, even as he starts that punishing thrusting again, his hand locking around my throat as he fucks me hard while his mouth crushes against mine. Some small, fragile hope that maybe we're not completely broken.
That maybe there's still something here worth saving.
22
LUCA
Ialmost said it.
The words are right there, hovering on my tongue as I move inside her, her body arching beneath mine in the darkness of my bedroom. She's gasping my name, her nails digging into my shoulders, and for one terrible, perfect moment, I forget why I'm supposed to hate her.
I fuck her harder, kiss her harder, locking my hand around her throat. I want to punish her, hurt her the way she hurt me. Drag pleasure from her body while fucking her full of mine. I want…
I can’t think of what I really want. She tightens around me, gasps, arches, and I forget what I was thinking, why I was so angry. I forget everything except the way she feels. The way she looks at me like I'm everything she's ever wanted.
I love you.
The words form in my mind, clear and devastating. My mouth opens?—
And then I catch myself.
The realization hits like ice water. What the fuck am I doing? What am I about to say?
I freeze mid-thrust, my entire body going rigid with horror at how close I came to destroying the last shred of control I have left.
"Luca?" Her voice is soft and confused. Her hands reach up toward my face, brushing against my cheeks, and I can't stand the tenderness in her touch or stand how much I want to lean into it.
"Don't." I pull back sharply, withdrawing from her completely. The air hits my straining, wet cock like a shock of pain, but I force myself to do it anyway, even though all I want is to plunge back into her and finish. "Don't touch me like that."
She pushes herself up partway, and I can see the hurt blooming in her eyes. "Luca, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I'm off the bed, pulling on my boxers, and forcing my aching cock inside. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have—we shouldn't have?—"
"We've been doing this for two weeks." Her voice is small, wounded, like I’ve taken away the only thing she had left. "What changed?"
I almost told you I love you, and I can't let that happen.
"I'm tired," I snap. “I wasn’t going to finish anyway. You should go back to your room."
