Page 32 of Silent Night With Luca

She peels the blood-stained shirt from my shoulders, and for a moment, the room feels heavier with the weight of everything that’s happened. Her fingers brush against my skin as she slides the shirt down my arms, and then she carefully unhooks the gun holster strapped to my chest. The cold metal of the gun feels out of place in this room—here, with her.

She sets the gun on the counter, her movements slow and deliberate, like she’s trying to distance herself from the violence that’s still clinging to me. Her touch, though gentle, grounds me like a thousand pound weight.

“Come on,” she says softly, taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom. She flips the switch, and the warm, soft light fills the space. The rays slice through the air and bounce off the steam starting to rise from the shower as she turns the water on. The sound of the water hitting the tile is soothing, a stark contrast to the harshness and finality of the ambush just hours ago.

I stand there, watching her, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and relief settle over me. The bastard is dead. Marco Vitale won’t be coming for us, for her, ever again. I’m spent—emotionally, mentally—but I can’t help the satisfaction that curls in my chest. It’s over.

“You nailed it,” I say, my voice rough but sincere as I grab her head in my hands. “Everything. The idea in the midst of your own peril, the note, the setup… It was because of you that the cockroach of a man isn’t walking the earth anymore.”

Fiamma pauses for a moment, her back to me as she adjusts the water. Then she turns, and a palpable electricity ignites immediately. The intensity between us is unspoken, but it is clear. “I just did what I had to.”

I let out a low chuckle, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would call that being a badass, going above and beyond. And you did it damn well.”

She reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head, and for a second, the air between us shifts. There’s a quiet understanding, a connection that goes deeper than words. She steps out of her jeans, her bare skin glowing in the dim light. And before I can even register the moment, she’s pulling me into the shower with her.

The water hits my skin, hot and soothing, washing away the blood, the grime, the tension that’s been coiled tight inside me for hours. Fiamma’s hands slide up my chest, her touch gentle but deliberate as she helps me rinse off the weight of everything. Her fingers trail over my shoulders, over the tattoos on my arms, tracing the roundness of my muscles. Her movements are slow and calming.

I lean into her, my forehead resting against hers, the steam curling around us like a cocoon. The sound of the water, the warmth, the way her body presses against mine comforts me in a way nothing else can.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the water. “For trusting me.”

Her hands cup my face. The touch of her skin on mine is the catalyst that puts something in motion neither of us can stop. “Thank you for trusting me.”

The heat between us simmers a slow burn that I have no intention to try to resist. Her lips brush against mine, and I kiss her back, not with urgency but with a deep, aching need. The need to feel her and remind myself that we made it through.

The steam envelops us in its warm embrace. This has become our thing, I guess. Something about water and Fiamma sets me off before I even let my dick touch her.

The water cascades over us, washing away the remnants of our ordeal, but it does nothing to quell the fire that burns between us.

Her back presses against the cool tile wall, and I position myself at her entrance, the tip of my cock barely penetrating her, feeling her heat and wetness, drinking in all of her.

“You feel that, Fiamma? Feel how hard you make me?” My hips grind against her, the length of my cock sliding along her belly, leaving a trail of want. “You’re like a drug, and I’m addicted.”

Her breath hitches as I nip at her neck, her hands exploring the contours of my chest, her nails scraping lightly over my skin. “You’re mine, every inch of you,” I tell her, and I capture her mouth in a searing kiss, our tongues dancing in a rhythm as old as time.

My fingers find her, slick with more than just the water from the shower. I tease her, stroking, circling, until she’s whimpering into my mouth, her body thrusting against mine, desperate for more.

“Tell me what you want,” I demand, my voice rough withdesire, as I pull back to look at her, to see the need mirrored in her gaze. “I want to hear you say it.”

She shudders, her cheeks flushed with perhaps a bit of shyness and arousal. “I want you, Luca. All of you.”

I groan at her words, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “You’ve got me, babe. Every thick, hard inch.” And with that, I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, and I drive into her with one powerful thrust.

Her cry of pleasure reverberates through the steam-filled air, and I still, letting her adjust to my size, the intensity of our connection. “Christ, you’re tight,” I grunt, struggling to maintain control. “So perfectly tight. I love the way your pussy feels around my cock.”

I start to move, each thrust punctuated with a word, a vow, a confession. “So. Fucking. Perfect.”

“Fuck me, Luca. Yes, more, devour me.”

Her responses, breathy and eager, spur me on, and the tempo increases, our bodies slapping together in a primal rhythm.

With a growl, I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her legs tightening around me.

Every thrust is a release, a primal need to claim her, to mark her as mine in the most basic way possible. The anger, the violence, the fear of nearly losing her—it all pours out of me with each pounding stroke. I’m rough, unrelenting, but she takes it, meets me thrust for thrust, her breathing ragged, her moans echoing off the walls.

“I want all of you,” I grunt, my voice harsh against her ear. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Luca,” she gasps, her voice laced with desperation and desire. “Only yours.”

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