Page 114 of The Ache That Stayed

My body betrayed me instantly, a sharp pulse of need tightening too fast through me. A low curse burned in my throat as I felt it—the slow leak of pre-cum, my control slipping far earlier than it should have, giving me away.

Fuck.

“Don’t—” I bit into her shoulder harder, breath rough, uneven.

If she didn’t stop, I’d surely come in my pants. Not like this. Not before I’d taken my time with her. I’d waited too long to lose control now. I wanted to drag this out, make her understand, make this moment carve itself into her bones the way she’d carved herself into mine.

My grip shifted, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter, because I wanted to taste her. Needed to taste her. And I was done waiting. Because restraint was no longer an option.

I saw the unmistakable stain of wetness in her shorts.

“You’re soaking already.”

Of course she was. I’d seen the signs long before she’d ever admitted them. In her breathing. In the way she looked at me. In how her body betrayed her even when her words didn’t.

My hand slid down, tugging at the band of her shorts, dragging them down, eyes locked on hers. I didn’t ask again. I didn’t give her time to think.

Thinking would bring him into it. Because the second she started thinking, guilt would follow. And I refused to let him exist anywhere near this moment. I refused to share her—even in her own head.

“Roxanne Talati,” I growled, voice low, dangerous. “I’m going to make sure you never question what you are to me again. That I’m tethered to you. That I’ll never let you go.”

Because words weren’t enough anymore. They never had been. Three years of yearning had stripped me down to something ugly and honest. I’d spent so long wanting her in silence that desire had stopped feeling like a choice. It had become part of me.

I dropped to the stool, bracing her thighs apart, spreading her, caging her against the counter.

Her pussy was glistening with desire. I traced a slow circle on her clit before licking her from entrance to her clit. A satisfied growl escaped me as my other hand slid down her thigh.

Her taste was intoxicating, heady, burning up an inferno in my body with a desire to mark her. Warm and addictive—the kind of taste a man ruins himself chasing. Like the first drag of smoke after surviving hell.

She gasped, her body arching, and I knew this wasn’t just lust. We had never been outrunning this. We’d only been delaying it. Like gravity pulling me exactly where I’d always been meant to be. Deeper this time.

Her taste hit me, sharp and sweet, and I lost control. If ruin tasted this good, I’d come crawling back for more.

“Fuck,” I muttered against her.

“Peccato… e redenzione.”

(Sin… and redemption.)

My tongue worked on her pussy again, circling her clit then flicking it rough with my tongue.

“I don’t think I’ll get enough of you.”

Her fingers tightened in my hair, pulling me closer, chasing friction. The fact she let herself feel it with me cracked a lock open in my chest, and for the first time in years, my heart felt terrifyingly alive.

Violence used to be the only thing that made me feel alive, walking into fights just to quiet the noise in my head. Now it was her. It was her breath. Her taste. The feel of her fingers tangled in my hair while she came apart for me.

“Oh—god—” she broke, the word tearing out without a thought.

I stopped; my hand came down sharp on her pussy. The slap made her gasp, a cry tearing out of her. She propped up on her elbows to look at me through hazy eyes.

“No,” I said sharply. “Not him.”

She blinked up at me, dazed, barely there.

“Say my name,” I growled. “Only. Mine.”

“Santino.” It almost came out as a whisper and I lost it.