Page 48 of The Ruin I Chose

His voice cracked on the last word. I didn’t know all the words—but I knew the tone. It was longing. God, it was longing.

And I felt it, not just in my body, but in my chest. In the place where longing lives. The words hit deeper than his thrusts—raw, unguarded.

I shattered, hips grinding, breath caught, moaning into his neck like I was trying to disappear inside him. My body convulsed, clutching him tighter, riding the wave until I was nothing but heat and heartbeat. For a second, I forgot the world outside us existed. Forgot the goodbye, waiting for us.

He followed, his gasp low, broken, his hands gripping my hips like he needed to anchor himself. His release was quiet, but the way he trembled told me everything.

We stayed like that for a moment, tangled. Spent. Our bodies still humming with the echo of what we’d done. We straightened our clothes slowly, clumsily, his fingers brushing my skin like he couldn’t stop touching me. Each accidental brush felt intentional.

My dress clung to my thighs, damp and wrinkled. His jeans were sticky with us.

He kissed me again, soft this time. Like he was trying to hold onto the taste of me before the night swallowed us whole.

When we reached the villa, Santino was already waiting. Marcello tucked my torn panties into his pocket like a trophy. As we passed Santino, he gave me a playful pat on the ass—a silent claim. I giggled, leaning into him, knowing exactly what it meant.

Santino’s smirk was slow, lazy, and loaded. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said plenty. His eyes flicked to Marcello’s pocket and then to me. Like he knew. Something unreadable passed through his gaze—gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Marcello,” Santino said. “There’s something that needs your urgent attention. Antonio is also on his way.”

I knew what that meant. We’d have to part for now. I kissed Marcello goodnight, long enough for anyone around to look away.

I slipped back to the room, hoping he’d find his way back to me—because tonight, silence would be too loud to bear.

I didn’t look back. But I felt his eyes on me. And I hated how much I wanted to turn around. And I knew—if he didn’t come find me tonight, I’d dream of him anyway.

CHAPTER 20

ROXANNE

The water ran hot over my skin, washing away the sweat, the sex and the ache of him. I stood there longer than I needed to—smiling, remembering, letting the steam blur everything—until my breath slowed and my body softened.

I slipped into an oversized tee and underwear, the cotton cool against my skin.

The moment my head hit the pillow, sleep took me. But it didn’t last. The air was cool against my skin as I stirred awake. The bed beside me was empty. Moonlight crept across the room, brushing against the curtains that fluttered in the breeze. I tossed and turned, the silence too loud, the absence too sharp. My hair was undone, tangled from sleep and memory. I sat at the edge of the bed, aching for the comfort of Marcello’s presence. The ghost of his touch still clung to me, a phantom warmth I couldn’t shake.

I slipped out of the room, barefoot, wearing only the t-shirt. The fabric clung to me at my chest—my breasts swayed freely beneath it, nipples brushing against the cotton with every step. The hallway was quiet. I padded down it slowly, peeking into rooms, searching. Every step made me pulse in anticipation, as if I could feel him even before I saw him. My thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to tame the throb he’d left in me.

Then I heard it—light chatter, a faint glow beneath a double door. I knocked and Antonio opened it. His eyes swept over me, from bare legs to tousled hair pulled to one side.

He turned to Marcello, smirking. “Message for you.”

Heat rushed up my neck—half shame, half excitement at being seen like this. I brushed past him, leaning against the closed door.

Marcello looked up from behind the desk, eyes wide. He looked tired—three buttons undone, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, and a hint of dark circles beneath his eyes. I felt it in my chest before I saw it, the slow burn of his gaze, dark and unmistakable.

The sight of me leaning against the door, arms crossed to hide my breasts, made something flicker in him. His throat bobbed—a single, hard swallow he didn’t hide fast enough.

I didn’t notice Santino at first. He was standing near the bookshelf, half in shadow, watching. Silent. But when I moved deeper into the room, he stepped forward slowly. His gaze dragged over me, and I felt it. The heat. The awareness. He stiffened, then smirked. And as he passed, his arm brushed mine—light, intentional. A touch that lingered. A wink followed. Slow. Loaded.

I inhaled sharply. Because I felt him. And Marcello did too.

Marcello’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything. Each step closer to Marcello made me ache, a pull in my core I couldn’t hide.

But when I stepped closer to Marcello, his hand found my waist firmly. Claiming. Like he was reminding me. Or reminding himself.

I felt the heat radiating from him as he exhaled; my stomach clenched. His fingers tightened just enough to say mine without words.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked gently, though his brows were furrowed.