“Vincenzo,” he says, low and shaking. “If you keep that up, I’ll forget to go slow.”
“That’s the plan.” I nip his sternum, then hook my thumbs in his waistband and tug. “Off.”
He shucks the last of his clothes with none of the showmanship he used to wield like a weapon—no smirk, no lingering pause for effect—only urgency that edges on reverence.
When he settles back over me, skin to skin at last, the first slide of him along my thigh pulls a gasp straight from my lungs. He curses in Russian under his breath, apology and hunger folded into one syllable, then eases down onto his elbows so our foreheads brush.
“Say you want this,” he whispers, even though my body’s already arching into his.
“I never stopped.” I seal the vow with a kiss that tastes of salt and something I refuse to call tears, and he sinks into it like the last step toward shelter after years in exile.
We move slowly, rebuilding something delicate, brick by brick. I guide his hand between my legs, show him the slick proof that I’m ready, that I’ve been ready since the first moment he walked into my gym.
His thumb circles the head of my cock, gentle and sure, until I can’t string coherent thoughts, until I’m panting into the curve of his shoulder. He reaches for the lube in the nightstand—my hands fumble for it with him, our fingers knocking together, laughter bubbling up despite the edge of desperation.
“Still useless at being patient,” he mutters, lubing up his fingers.
“You never complained.” I bite the shell of his ear. He groans, slides one finger in, then a second, stretching me with a pace measured more by the jerk of my hips than the clock. I clutch his wrist and push down harder.
“Easy, My King,” he says, voice thin. “I’m not letting you rush past this.”
“Coward,” I breathe, though my own eyes blur when he brushes my prostate.
A feral grin splits his face. “Fine. But remember, you begged.” With that, he withdraws, coats himself in hurried strokes, and positions himself at my hole.
I brace my heels on the mattress, stare into the blue storm of his gaze, and nod. He pushes forward, slow but relentless, filling me inch by inch until his hips meet mine. The stretch burns sweetly, a reminder that some aches are meant to be worshiped, not cured.
Neither of us moves; we just breathe each other’s air and let our bodies remember. Then he pulls back and thrusts shallowly, testing, watching. I roll my hips up in answer, and the sound he makes is half curse, half prayer.
He sets a rhythm meant for breaking hearts open—long, slow strokes that drag every nerve to the surface, no rush, no violence, just the inexorable certainty of tide against shore.
It’s when sweat slicks our skin and words dissolve into gasps that he finally spots what I’ve kept hidden for eight years. His gaze drops to my chest, pupils blown, and freezes.
“Vincenzo.” My name comes out raw enough to rake gravel. He lifts onto one shaking arm, the other hand splayed over my ribs, thumb tracing the ink just above my heart.
??????´?
I watch him read it twice before understanding hits, and his breath leaves him in a broken rush. He drags his fingers across the tattoo like he expects it to smear.
“You…” he says, hoarse. “My name… You put my name on you.”
“Where it’s safest,” I answer, my throat tight. “Where no one could strip it away, not even memory.”
His eyes shine, but no tears fall. Dragovich men don’t cry, but the wet shimmer is enough. He bows his head, presses his lips to the ink, and I feel the tremor in them, feel every apology he never said etched into that kiss.
“I thought I’d lost every trace of my heart,” he whispers against my skin. “And you… You carried me on yours.”
“Always,” I repeat, fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring him there. “So, carry me now.”
He lifts his head, tears sheen replaced by heat so fierce it steals my breath. Without another word, he rocks into me deeper, like he’s fitting himself to the shape etched over my heart.
Every thrust drags across that spot inside that makes the edges of my vision blur, and the rhythm builds until language becomes irrelevant. The only sounds left are the slap of skin, the rasp of sheets, and the ragged chorus of our breathing.
Each time I meet his thrust, he murmurs something in Russian—endearments I once forced him to translate, curses that once tasted like war—tonight they taste like home.
I answer with Italian fragments sworn in church and broken in alleyways, using devotion for kindling. Our bodies find an accord no treaty ever managed, a truce written in salt and heat instead of blood.
He changes the angle—just a tiny shift of hips that tips my pelvis higher—and the head of his cock grinds over my prostate so hard stars rip across the blackout curtain of my vision, galaxies forming behind my eyelids.
