Page 115 of The Ruin I Chose

“Oh God,” I whispered. “You feel so—”

He thrust again. Harder. I almost bucked off the bed, matching his rhythm. He bit my shoulder, increasing his pace. I let out sharp breaths with every thrust. He lifted my legs to his shoulders, reaching somewhere deep; I could barely breathe.

“I can’t… I can’t…” I whimpered. “It’s too much. Too good.”

I felt myself unravelling. Walls tightening. Breath hitching.

“Marci,” I gasped. “Amore, I’m going to come.”

He paused, just the tip inside me, pulsing.

“What did you say?” he asked, head tilted.

“Marci? Amore?”

He smiled. “I love that name.”

Then he flipped me over, so I was riding him. Unhooked my bra, took my breast in his mouth.

“Say my name again.”

“Marci,” I moaned.

I looked down at him, his eyes locked on mine. I wasn’t just fucking him. I was claiming him. With every thrust. Every moan. Every gasp. I was rewriting the story he’d broken. And he let me.

He let me ruin him, love him the way only I could. I was reclaiming him. I was taking back every moment he’d stolen. Letting me remind him who I was—who we were.

He bit my nipple and rolled his tongue over, then bent his knees. He thrust up hard. The rhythm of my hips matched his every stroke, clenching tight, milking him for his every restraint. He dragged his mouth from my neck to my shoulder, biting and kissing, fusing us into one as he thrust faster and deeper. And with that, we both came undone—together.

Our release ran down me onto him. It didn’t bother us. We were spent, suspended in that moment. If it were up to me, I’d let him stay this way forever. He fit me perfectly. Undid me gentle and rough—just the way I liked it.

I lay on top of him, chest to chest, breath tangled with his. His cock was still inside me—semi-hard, pulsing, warm. I could feel him everywhere. His heartbeat. His breath. His need. Like he was stitched into me.

My fingers traced the tattoo again, slower this time. The ink was still fresh. My initial. My eyes. The birds. The anchor.

In aeternum tuus.

Forever yours.

“When did you get this done?”

“After China,” he said, kissing my forehead.

I pressed my palm to his chest, over the ink, over his heart. It felt like a vow. Like he’d carved permanence into his skin just to prove he wouldn’t leave again. I kissed it slow and lay my head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he lazily stroked my back. All the noise in my head disappeared, and only his heartbeat stayed, steadying my breathing.

I sat up suddenly, panic slicing through the haze.

“Shit. We didn’t use protection.”

He didn’t even flinch. “We never have,” he said, smug.

“Yeah, but this time I’m not on birth control. It messes with my hormones.”

He shrugged, lips twitching. “With the amount I’ve smoked, I doubt my swimmers are strong enough to get you pregnant.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It just takes one.”

He leaned up, kissed me deep. “I’ll take my chances.”