“Don’t what?”
“Make me think this means something.”
She goes still beneath me.
Then, quietly, she says, “Doesn’t it?”
Everything in me stops.
The question hangs between us, more intimate than sex. More naked than her body beneath mine. More dangerous than Russo. More dangerous than any war waiting outside this room.
I look down at her.
Her eyes are open now. No armor. No barbs. No Dante Russo between her teeth.
Just Elizabeth.
My Elizabeth, even if I have no right to call her that.
I roll my hips into hers again, slow enough to make her shiver.
“It means too much,” I say.
Her lips part. I kiss her before she can respond, because I don’t know what I’ll do if she says my name like that again. I don’t know what I’ll give away. I don’t know what I’ll promise. And I am a man who understands promises. I know exactly how much blood they cost.
But Elizabeth arches beneath me, soft and wet and trembling, and I would sign anything in that moment. I would burn the city down to keep her making those sounds for me. I would let Russo come to Chicago. I would let him walk right up to my door.
Then I would make him understand. She is the woman beneath me, nails in my skin, my name breaking on her tongue as she comes undone around me.
Her body tightens, and I feel the exact moment pleasure takes her. Her mouth opens. No sound comes out at first. Then she cries my name, and it is the only victory I care about.
I bury my face against her neck and follow her over, my hips driving deep, my body locking over hers as release tears through me hard enough to leave me shaking.
For a while, neither of us moves.
I keep my weight off her, barely, though every part of me wants to collapse and keep her pinned beneath me until the world remembers not to touch what’s mine.
Her fingers move slowly through my hair.
“I hate when you get quiet,” she says.
I lift my head. Her eyes search mine, wary again, but not cold. Not yet.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s never good.”
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. “No. It usually isn’t.”
She studies me. “About Dante?”
The smile dies. There it is again. The knife. But this time, she doesn’t twist it.
I brush damp hair from her face. “He can come.”
Her brows draw together. “Lorenzo?—”
“He can come to Chicago. He can bring whoever he wants. He can make whatever threats help him sleep at night.”
