The hand on my thigh slides up and inward until he finds how wet I am for him.
“You’re going to remember tonight.”
“I—”
“No. Listen.”
His thumb starts to circle. A gasp rips from my lungs.
“Every time someone tries to put a hand on you,” he growls, “this is what comes back. Not him. Not what he tried. Me. This. The way I take care of it.”
“Raffaele—”
“Say it back.”
“What?”
“Say what comes back.”
“You.You.”
“Good girl.”
He pushes inside me.
“Mine,” he says, against my mouth.
“Yours.”
It’s out before I can decide whether I really mean it.
His grip on my thigh tightens until I feel each of his fingers individually. His rhythm changes. Even harder. He doesn’t stop. He fucks me until I’m clawing at his back, begging for more.
I come on him with my forehead pressed to the wet column of his throat. He follows two thrusts later, his teeth in the meat of my shoulder, his hand fisted in my hair so hard my scalp burns.
The water is still running. My leg is still around his hip. His weight is still pinning me to the tile.
He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t pull back.
I let my eyes close.
18
RAFFAELE
She’s in the other room.
I can hear her packing her bag through the wall. She’s been at it for ten minutes. I’m letting her. The motion is good for her right now. Hands. A task. Anywhere that’s not the bathroom.
I haven’t gone back into the bathroom either.
I check my phone.
Need you. Now.And the address. Sent at 9:17 PM.
It’s now 10:11, and Lorenzo hasn’t replied, which means he’s already on his way and not bothering to type. I know him well enough to read the difference between a Lorenzo who’s blowing me off and a Lorenzo who’s two blocks out and driving with one hand. The latter is a man who doesn’t waste a thumb on a confirmation.
I move through Bea’s apartment.
