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"You take every inch of me, sweetheart," I growl, planting my hands beside her head and pulling back all the way to the tip of my cock before slamming all the way inside again.
The Land Rover rocks on its suspension under the force of my thrusts, sleet drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof above our heads. She meets every punishing stroke with a desperate roll of her hips, wrapping her long thigh legs around my waist, pulling me deeper into her.
"Yes! Right there, Jamie!" she screams into the steamed-up windows.
Her dirty mouth only drives me faster. I pound into her with relentless, savage tempo, the slap of our wet skin echoing in the cab, driving her to the very edge of the cliff.
"Come for me, Elizabeth," I demand, my hips snapping into hers with brutal rhythm. "Let me feel it."
Her body locks tight. Her fingernails tear down my back as her orgasm tears through her core, her pussy milking my cock in violent, rhythmic contractions that shatter my control.
I roar her name into her neck, burying my face in her dark curls, thrusting three more times before exploding deep inside her heat, spilling ropes of burning cum until we are both shuddering, gasping for air in the foggy darkness of the truck.
I collapse against her, resting my forehead on hers, listening to her heart hammering too hard against my chest.
Slowly, Elizabeth lifts a shaking hand, her calloused fingers gently stroking my red hair.
"You really are a dangerous bastard, Jamie O'Connor," she whispers softly, a breathtaking, sated smile lighting up her bruised face.
I smile against her lips, kissing her with deep, possessive tenderness.
"And you're mine now, Elizabeth Byrne," I murmur, my hand resting warm and heavy over her hip. "We should probably get dressed. We have a flight to catch in Edinburgh."
NINETEEN
IRIS
The Capri studio smells like crushed lemon blossoms, wet stone, and turpentine.
This room is supposed to be mine, and some days I almost believe it. The bowls are where I left them. The sea keeps the same promise it made yesterday. Still, every time I pick up pigment, I feel the ghost of New York under my nails, hospital soap, and old fear, and I have to remind myself to stay on my feet long enough to make something that is not grief. Romeo thinks watching me paint is peace. For me it is work. It is how I show I am more than what was done to me.
I have been on this island long enough that the rooms no longer startle me. Sofia knows the thresholds. My hands know the table with the notched bowls. The air does not taste like New York. It tastes like sun and salt.
Romeo stands behind me while I work, close enough that cinnamon and espresso thread through the linseed. He doesn’t rush me even though we have to leave soon for our flight. He only watches, and for once I do not tell him to stop.
Days have made a rhythm out of us. Coffee. Canvas. His mouth on the back of my neck when the paint dries. I still wake expecting a lock on the door. There is only the sea.
Today the red will not sit still on the linen. It looks too much like a church floor. I say so, and Romeo goes quiet in that way that means he is back in Queens, too late, glass already falling.
He comes to me and takes the mess of my hands in his.
“I was supposed to protect you. When I kicked open those cathedral doors and saw you tied to that altar, naked and bleeding, I lost my fucking mind. I shot the Bishop, but I didn't see the stray bullet. I didn't stop the glass from raining down on you. I watched those shards cut into your eyes, and every scream that left your mouth carved a piece out of my soul."
His hands slide up to cup my face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears tracking down my cheeks.
"I cannot give you your sight back, Kitten," he murmurs, his voice trembling with a hard, desperate devotion that terrifies me to my very core. "I would tear my own eyes out of my skull and give them to you if it worked that way. But I can make sure that whatever world you live in from this day forward is beautiful. That is why I built the gallery in Tindari. That is why I built this studio. You are my Donna. You are the only good thing in my filthy, blood-soaked life, and I will spend every breath I have making amends for what I took from you."
My breath hitches. The rage I have held onto like a shield for three long years begins to fracture, tiny hairline cracks spreading across my anger until it crumbles into dust.
He is an obsessive, possessive bastard. He is a killer and a Don.
But he loves me with a sickness that matches my own broken soul.
"Romeo," I breathe, lifting my hands to frame his strong, stubbled jaw.
His eyes snap open, dark and burning with an intensity that steals the air straight from my lungs. Before he can speak, before he can apologize again, I rise onto my tiptoes and press my mouth against his.
The kiss is not rough; it's slow, deep, and filled with a desperate, aching hunger that makes my heart pound against my ribs. He groans deep in his throat, his arms wrapping around my waist like iron bands, lifting me until my toes barely graze the floor. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of salt, scotch, and surrender, claiming me in a way that has nothing to do with paper or rings.
