Chapter 75: Soft and Slow
The first light was a pale thief, stealing the deep blue from the room and replacing it with sheets of pearl grey. Damien stirred, the instinct of a man whose life demanded early alertness. He began to shift, to disentangle his limbs from hers.
Beth made a sound, a soft, wordless protest from the depths of sleep. Her arm, slung across his chest, tightened. Her leg, hooked over his thighs, anchored him down. She burrowed her face into the space between his shoulder and jaw, her breath hot against his skin.
“No,” she mumbled, the word slurred with sleep. “It’s still night.”
He chuckled, a low vibration she felt through his ribs. “It’s past six, amore. The sun’s cheating.”
“The sun can go to hell.” She clung harder, a koala in silk and warmth. “You’re not allowed to leave.”
This was the secret no dossier could contain, the truth no rival would believe. Damien Rossi, rendered motionless by a thirty-six-year-old woman pretending to be asleep. He surrendered, settling back into the pillows, his arms wrapping around her. For these stolen hours, the papers they’d signed were ash. The hurt was a ghost outside the door. Here, in the rumpled cathedral of her bed, there was only this: the solid weight of him, the coconut scent of her hair, the slow, synchronous tide of their breathing.
She drifted again, not into sleep, but into a hazy, conscious pleasure. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the hard plane of his stomach, down the line of hair that disappeared beneath the sheet. She felt him stir in response, a thickening against her thigh. A slow, feline smile touched her lips.
“Bethany,” he warned, his voice rough with morning.
“You’re the one who tried to escape,” she whispered, her hand sliding lower, closing around him through the linen. He was already hard, thick and hot in her palm. He hissed, his hips pushing up into her touch.
In one fluid motion, he rolled, pinning her beneath him. The dawn light caught the edges of his silhouette, gilding the muscles of his shoulders, the intent in his eyes. “You play a dangerous game this early.”
“I’m not playing.” She reached up, pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was deep and slow, a tasting, a rediscovery. It lacked the frantic heat of the night before; this was something else, a lazy, thorough claiming. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, his tongue exploring the seam of her lips before she opened for him with a sigh. He kissed her jaw, her throat, the frantic pulse at its base. He took his time, as if memorizing the landscape of her collarbone with his lips.
She arched beneath him, her hands sliding down the powerful slope of his back, nails scraping lightly. “Damien…”
He shifted, settling between her legs. She was already wet, her readiness a slick warmth against his stomach. He didn’t enter her. Not yet. Instead, he slid down her body, his hands pushing her thighs apart, his mouth following a deliberate, maddening path.
He kissed the inside of her knee, the soft skin of her inner thigh. She trembled. His breath was hot against her core. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick. “So fucking perfect for me.”
Then his mouth was on her, and she cried out, her fingers fisting in his hair. He ate her with a devotee’s reverence and a sinner’s hunger. His tongue was relentless, flat strokes that made her back bow, then delicate, swirling flicks that had her gasping nonsense. He sucked her clit into his mouth, and she sobbed, her hips bucking off the mattress. He held her down, his arms like iron bands across her hips, his tongue driving her ruthlessly toward the edge.
“Please… God, please…”
He pulled back, leaving her shuddering and empty. He moved up her body, his eyes black with need. He notched himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her. “What do you want, Beth?” His voice was a raw scrape. “Tell me.”
“You,” she gasped, her eyes locked on his. “I want you inside me. Now. Fucking fill me up.”
He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that stole the air from her lungs. She was so tight, so impossibly wet and warm. He sank to the hilt, a groan tearing from his throat, his forehead dropping to hers. They stayed like that, joined completely, trembling with the intensity of the fit.
Then he began to move.
It was a deep, rolling rhythm, each withdrawal almost complete, each thrust a deliberate, soul-shaking possession. The pace was languid, thorough. Each stroke dragged against her inner walls, building a coil of pleasure so intense it was akin to pain. He watched her face, cataloging every flutter of her eyelashes, every parted gasp of her lips.
“This,” he grunted, sliding deep, holding himself there. “This is where you belong. Taking my cock. Coming on it.” He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then drove back in, harder. “Say it.”
She was beyond pride. “Yours,” she whimpered, the coil tightening. “I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Damien. God, please…”
He changed the angle, hitting a spot that made her see stars. His pace increased, the languid grind shifting into something more urgent, more possessive. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths—it was a crude, beautiful music. He fucked her with a focused intensity, every drive of his hips a punctuation mark, a claim staked.
“Gonna come,” she warned, her voice breaking. “I’m gonna…”
“Do it.” His command was guttural. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it.”
It shattered her. The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave of blinding, pulsing pleasure that clenched violently around him. Her cries were muffled against his shoulder as she bit down.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the root, his own shout a raw, unfiltered sound against her neck. He pulsed inside her, hot and endless, his big body shuddering as he emptied himself.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing, slowing, syncing. He collapsed beside her, pulling her with him, keeping her close. Their skin was slick, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
He nuzzled her hair. “So much for leaving.”
She traced the tattoo on his pectoral, a familiar pattern of ink and scars. “We have a flight to catch,” she murmured, though she made no move to get up.
“Later.” His arm tightened around her. “Let the world wait.”
But the world, as it always did, intruded. An hour later, as they lay tangled in a doze, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then his. A moment later, a discreet knock sounded at the bedroom door.
“Marco,” Damien called out, his voice carrying a new edge.
The door opened a crack. “Boss. Montgomery’s security detail is prepped. The pilot has filed the flight plan to Teterboro. Wheels up in three hours.” A pause. “And your mother’s assistant just called. They’ve… arranged a car to meet you at the airport.”
Beth felt Damien go still. The sanctuary of the morning fractured, the cold architecture of their reality sliding back into place. Sophia wasn’t just inviting them. She was staging their arrival.
Beth lifted her head, meeting his eyes. The softness was gone, burned away by a cool, calculating light. She kissed him, once, hard and final.
“Then we should get ready,” she said.