The air leaves the room. I reach up, my thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. She’s so soft. She’s the only soft thing in my life. Every secret I’ve carried for eleven years sits heavy in my veins. Her hands on me make the weight shift.
“Amara,” I groan. It’s a warning. It’s a prayer.
“Show me,” she says.
“Show you what?”
“Show me that I’m with you. Not just a guest. Not just a partner in a vendetta. Show me the man behind the vault.”
She reaches for the buttons of my shirt. Her fingers are nimble, certain. For once, she reaches instead of retreats. For a woman who told me she never unpacks her bags, she’s standing her ground with a courage that humbles me. She’s stripping me bare, and I let her. I let her, because this is the first surrender I have understood in years.
My shirt falls open. She presses her palms against my chest, her skin dark and perfect against the pale, scarred landscape of my torso. She traces the jagged line of an old scar over my ribs, her touch light as a feather but heavy as a mountain.
“You have so many,” she whispers.
“South Loop, six years ago. A job that went wrong and left me the one to clean it up,” I say.
“No more cleaning,” she says, her voice gaining strength. “No more fixing other people tonight.”
She stands up, pulling me with her. She’s smaller than me, but she holds all the power. The way she looks at me strips the command out of my body.
I grab her waist, my large hands nearly meeting around her middle. I hoist her up, sitting her on the edge of the marble counter. Her legs wrap around my hips instantly, the friction of her jeans against my slacks sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity straight to my cock. I’m already hard, a dull, thumping ache that demands release, but I want to savor this. I want to memorize every inch of her.
I lean in, burying my face in the crook of her neck. She smells like rain and blood and her own unique, citrusy scent. I lick the spot just below her ear, and she lets out a sharp, hitching breath that makes my growl vibrate against her skin.
“Alessio,” she moans, her fingers digging into my hair.
“You’re here,” I say against her pulse. “Not running. Not tonight.”
“I’m not running,” she says, and she sounds like she means it.
I pull back just enough to look at her. I need to see her eyes when I say it. “I want you to remember this when the war tries to make you run.”
“Do it,” she challenges, her chin lifting. “Stop talking and do it.”
I wait one more breath, until her hands pull me closer. Then I move. I drag the shirt up carefully around the bandage, slower than my body wants. I want her skin. I want to see her, all of her, the way she looks when the armor is finally gone.
She’s wearing a simple black bra, and I unhook it carefully, watching the bandage on her arm more than my own hunger. She is magnificent. A goddess carved out of obsidian and fire. I cup her breasts, my thumbs grazing the tips, and she arches her back, a soft cry escaping her lips.
I take one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, my tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She tastes like heaven. She tastes like the home I never thought I’d have. I move to the other breast, my teeth grazing the edge of the areola, and she whimpers, her head falling back.
“Please,” she gasps. “Alessio, I need?—”
“I know what you need.”
I reach down, unzipping her jeans. I tug them down her legs, along with her lace panties, leaving her exposed to me. I step back for a second, just to look. My god. Her legs are long and lean, her pussy a dark, inviting nest between her thighs. She’s already slick for me, and the sound she makes when I look drives me toward the edge of sanity.
I don’t wait. I can’t. I press my face between her thighs, my tongue finding her clit with ruthless precision. She screams my name, her hands clenching in my hair, her hips bucking against the counter.
“You’re so sweet,” I mutter, my voice muffled by her flesh. I drink her in. I want to know the taste of her frustration, the tasteof her release. I use my fingers to stretch her, two of them sliding into her slick heat while my tongue continues its assault.
She clenches around my fingers, a rhythmic, desperate pulse that tells me she’s close. She’s close. I can feel the tension building in her muscles, the way her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts.
“Alessio, I’m—I’m going to?—”
“Go,” I command, my voice low and dark. “Give it to me, Amara. Give me everything.”
She shatters. Her body goes rigid, a long, high-pitched keen tearing from her throat as her climax ripples through her. I don’t stop. I keep my tongue on her, catching every drop of her essence, holding her through the tremors until she goes limp against me.
