Page 34 of The Mobster’s Nurse

"Luca—"

"I've got you," I murmur against her.

When she comes, it rolls through her in waves. Her free hand finds my hair. Her thighs press around me. I stay with her through all of it, then ease back and look up at her face.

Her eyes are soft. Certain.

"Come here," she says.

I move up the bed. Reach over and uncuff her wrist, rubbing the skin gently before she can ask.

"Why?" she murmurs.

"I want to feel you," I tell her. "Both of you. All of you."

She wraps both arms around me as I hold myself over her, and I guide myself to her entrance slowly, watching her face.

I push in gently, pausing, reading her expression at every inch. Her brow creases slightly and then relaxes. Halfway in, a smile breaks across her face.

"Oh," she breathes. "Oh, that's⁠—"

"Yeah," I manage.

"Don't stop."

I push the rest of the way. Rest against her, both of us adjusting, her arms tightening around me.

"You okay?" I ask.

"More than," she whispers into my neck. "Luca. Yes." She looks into my eyes. “But, she whispers, “I want both my hands cuffed, please.”

I start to move. Slow and careful, I cuff each wrist to a bedpost.

She responds to everything, sighs into my shoulder. Then bites. Bucks her hips. Long minutes pass like this. Unhurried. Her body learning mine and mine learning hers.

"Luca," she says eventually, and there's a new note in her voice.

"Tell me," I say.

"More," she whispers. "Please. I won’t break."

I lift my head to look at her.

“If I’m to be a mobster’s woman, you have to fuck me like a mobster’s woman.”

I give her more. Thrusting faster, then slower. Teasing her. Stretching her. Pushing her legs onto my shoulder. Leaping around the bed like an Olympic gymnast from position to position. She takes it all. Wetter than when we started.

The tempo builds, her breathing matches mine, grunt for grunt. We get loud. Her hips rising to meet me. She comes again with her neck muscles straining her face up into my neck, her voice muffled against my skin, her whole body shaking with it. Her arms pull against her restraints. Biceps flex. Fingers curl into fists as her orgasm begins to subside. And her breaths settle to a normal pace.

I follow her. It tears through me in long, shuddering waves, and I bury my face in her hair and let it take me, murmuring her name once, low and rough, like it's the only word I know.

After we both recover, I uncuff her and roll to the side, pulling her with me. She rests her cheek against my chest. Her breathing and our heartbeats slow.

For a long time neither of us speaks.

"How are you?" I ask finally.

She considers. “Complete,” she says. Then, quieter, “and proud. Proud of myself, proud of you too … and, of us.”