His kiss hits me like an electric shock and, for a split second, I feel something tear open in my chest and mend itself instantly—stronger, sharper, more alive. I feel him everywhere: on my skin, in my stomach, low in my pelvis, in every cell that seems to wake from a long numbness and begin to crave more. I lift my hands instinctively and cling to him, to his shoulders, to whatever I can grasp, as if I'm afraid that if I let go, he'll disappear.
The attraction between us explodes without warning, and for a few moments we both lose control, as if all the accusations, all the fears, all the pride had only been a thin layer melting under the heat of desire.
But Duca is Duca.
In a fraction of a second, his hands tighten, his presence shifts. I don't even realize exactly when he takes control. His grip grows firmer, the rhythm of the kiss changes, deepens, and I feel myself gently pushed backward onto the bed—not with brutality, but with an authority that needs no explanation.
I want him.
I want him so badly it almost hurts.
But I won't say it. I won't give him that satisfaction.
I hold on to my pride even as my breath breaks beneath his mouth, even as his hands slide over my waist, my back, as if trying to memorize every curve.
And in the middle of the desire, fear rises too.
I'm aware that in his world I was a pawn, a piece in a game bigger than me, and that lack of control frightens me more deeply than his touch ignites me. The fact that, even now, he decides how far we go, how long it lasts, when it stops, reminds me that the power isn't mine.
"I won't let anyone hurt you again," he murmurs between kisses, his voice low, serious—almost a vow. "Never."
His words unsteady me more than any touch could, because inside them is a promise I want to believe, and am terrified to trust.
The kiss grows more passionate, hotter, harder to stop, and our hands no longer know where to rest.
Suddenly I feel him tense slightly, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath tangled with mine.
"If I don't stop now, I won't be able to control myself, little love," he says hoarsely. "I don't want you to hate me more than you already do."
I cup his face in my hands and force him to look at me.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "You owe me a little happiness in this hell you dragged me into."
He studies me for a few seconds, and for the first time I see something fragile inside his desire—something that makes his large body seem almost vulnerable.
"Are you sure, little love?" he asks quietly.
"Yes. I'm sure. I want us to do it one last time. Tomorrow you take me home and forget you ever knew me. But tonight, you make up for every tear you made me cry."
"My love," he murmurs, and the way he says it makes me tremble.
He bends over me again, and his kisses trail slowly down the line of my neck, over my still-heated skin. I arch instinctively, lost in sensation. He helps me out of my clothes between broken breaths and whispers that no longer make sense, and the room fills with heat and with sounds that can't be controlled anymore.
My hands forget how to behave. I touch him with a hunger I barely recognize, sliding my palms over his shoulders, over his warm chest, across the bandage that reminds me he's wounded and yet here, with me, alive. I feel the heat of his skin beneath my fingers, taut, almost vibrating under every touch, and when I slide my hand into his hair and curl my fingers around the thick strands, I tug instinctively, blinded by the pleasure shooting up my spine like electricity.
His breath breaks against my mouth, and for the first time he's no longer the man completely in control; he's simply a man who wants me, trembling over me the way I tremble beneath him.
My skin is already warm, damp, sensitive to every touch, and when his mouth begins to move slowly down the line of my neck, over my collarbones, lower, I feel the sensations roll through me in relentless waves. I feel his lips, his tongue, his hot breath igniting every inch of me, and I arch without realizing it, surrendered entirely to the feeling.
I hold him by the hair, draw him closer, guide him without speaking, and he understands. He always understands.
When he moves lower between my thighs, the air leaves my lungs and a cry escapes me before I can stop it.
When he touches me with his tongue where the desire is already unbearable, every breath vanishes from my body and a sound tears out of my chest—uncontrolled, almost a scream. I bite my lip, but it doesn't help. My body begs for him without words, and he listens. He moves with hunger, deeply, completely. It feels like I'm dying.
The wave comes suddenly, violently, sweeping me away. I feel my fingers clench in his hair, my thighs trembling, the world going white for a moment—no outlines, no thoughts. It's an orgasm that breaks me apart and puts me back together at the same time, emptying my mind and filling my body with a warm, dizzying light.
He rises slowly, comes over me, and kisses me deeply, and I taste myself on his lips, mingled with his heat. I grip the back of his neck and pull him closer, without shame.
When he enters me, I cry out again, and the sound that tears from my chest is raw, animal, full—as if everything I've held inside for days escapes with it. I feel him deep, complete, and my body opens without reserve, without defense. It feels like home. It feels as if I had shattered into pieces and found myself exactly where I was meant to be, wrapped around him, tight on him, taking him in without hiding anymore.
Our movements unravel, break free of all restraint, grow faster, harder, hungrier, as if we've both kept this fire caged for too long and now refuse to tame it. I feel him inside me with every motion, every thrust that pulls another moan from my lips, and my hips rise to meet him, starving. The rhythm builds, deepens, lifts us and throws us into a vortex where there is no past, no reason—only flesh, heat, and pure desire.
Our breaths shatter and blend together, our foreheads bump lightly, and his hands grip my waist with a strength that makes me feel small and wanted at the same time. I feel his burning skin pressed to mine, our sweat mingling, and everything becomes too much and exactly enough all at once.
When the end comes, it comes violently and in unison, like an explosion that empties our minds and floods our bodies with blinding white light. We cry out almost at the same time, and for a few seconds nothing exists but that overwhelming sensation that binds us, burns us, fuses us into a single breath. We are no longer two people with pride and mistakes, but one pulse, one wave that crashes and quiets together.
We remain still, still joined, skin against skin, our hearts pounding wildly, and in the darkness of the room his eyes shine intensely, more alive than any light.
He looks at me for a long moment, with a hunger that hasn't faded and something much deeper hidden behind it.
"My love," he whispers.
And this time the word isn't just tender. It's possessive—and it feels real.
We catch our breath in silence, because any word would be unnecessary, would shatter the fragile balance hovering between us. He strokes the bare skin of my back with slow, lazy movements, tracing faint circles that make me shiver now and then, and I stay pressed to him, listening to his heart beat strong and steady, like a sure metronome anchoring me to the present.
Soon, that hunger that binds us and keeps us close—quiet, smoldering—returns without warning, and the night turns wild again, dense, almost unreal, as if the darkness itself were pushing us back into each other.
We make love until exhaustion, until our bodies no longer know where one ends and the other begins, until our breaths fracture and our hearts pound wildly, yet neither of us wants to stop. It's intense, unrestrained, almost brutal, and at the same time filled with something that feels like desperation—the need to feel, to live, to make sure that at least this night was real.
I fall asleep dizzy in his arms, my cheek pressed to his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat slowing, heavy and deep, like a great animal that has finally calmed. I feel small and protected at once, my body still humming with the echo of pleasure.
The sleep doesn't last long. We begin again. And again.
If this is the only night we have, I tell myself as I lose myself in his arms once more, then I will remember it for the rest of my life.
For one night, I was his woman. And he was only mine.
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