Page 82 of Marriage of Revenge

"One more size," he murmurs against my skin. "Then you'll be ready for me."

The care he takes, the way he makes even this clinical necessity feel intimate... I find myself laughing softly when he makes exaggerated growls of appreciation.

Finally, when I'm properly prepared, he positions himself between my thighs. Even with all his care, there's still discomfort when he first pushes in - he's bigger than the largest dilator. But he goes slow, adding more lube, kissing away my gasps of pain.His hands work magic on my clit, making pleasure overshadow the stretch.

"That's it," he growls, sinking deeper. "Take all of me, Bell'cenda."

He's doing more than just being with me - he's taking care of me, ensuring every touch draws out pleasure to counter any pain. When I give him the nod, our eyes lock in a moment of pure connection. Then he's fully inside me, filling me completely, and it's like lightning through my veins. I wrap my leg around him instinctively, pulling him closer, wanting more despite the lingering ache.

It's right, so perfectly right. Like we were made for this - for each other. The slight pain just makes everything more real, more intense. I'm balanced on the edge of something extraordinary, and the way he holds me, the way he moves... I trust him to catch me when I fall.

"You feel..." he growls, voice rough with need and something deeper, "like you were crafted for me." His words resonate through me, touching places deeper than flesh. Making me believe that maybe this isn't about revenge anymore. Maybe it never was.

His mouth claims mine and oh god - this kiss burns every thought away. It's everything tender wrapped in need, his lips somehow both gentle and demanding. He tastes like expensive wine and sweet promises, like everything I've dreamed of having. My heart performs its own dance of joy, racing like it's trying to match the rhythm he's setting. This is everything I imagined in those lonely nights, and so much more beautiful.

When he shifts me, the angle changes and suddenly every sensation intensifies. His callused fingers find me again - rough skin against sensitive flesh making me arch and gasp. He plays my body like he used to play piano, finding exactly what makesme sing. Those strong hands know just how to touch, how to tease, how to make me feel perfect despite every scar.

He doesn't slow his pace - each thrust deep enough to make me see stars, powerful enough to make me forget everything but this. The contrast between his powerful rhythm and those clever fingers working between my legs makes me feel things I never thought I would. It's overwhelming and perfect and real.

I feel it building like music before final crescendo. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, each one higher than the last until I'm drowning in sensation. My body responds like it's remembering a dance it was born to perform, every nerve ending electric with joy.

Desperately, I try to match his rhythm, to meet him thrust for thrust. Each of his movements drives deeper, more intensely, as if he's reaching into the very core of me. The sensation is all-consuming, a whirlwind of intensity that spins me further into the maelstrom of our passion.

And then, when he finally loses control, the change in his rhythm, the guttural sound that escapes him, it's like a key turning in a lock. I come undone completely, unraveling in his arms. My body responds in kind, a cascade of pleasure that mirrors his own release. Together, we're lost in the storm, riding the waves of a pleasure so profound, so all-encompassing, that for a moment, nothing else exists but the two of us and this powerful, overwhelming connection.

The sounds we make echo off stone walls - skin on skin, desperate breaths, passion turned to promise.

"We're both panting, out of breath. Our foreheads are pressed together, and when he whispers my name, it's like my heart skips a beat.

He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close as we lie down together, spooning as if it's something we've always done. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, strong and steady. In thisquiet moment, it feels like we've found our own secret language, a silent truce in a war neither of us asked for. Just us, in our little bubble of peace.

Because this isn't just desire anymore.

This is hope made real.

This is believing in happy endings again.

His lips brush my shoulder, soft as forgiveness. "Sleep, Bella." His voice wraps around me like a promise, and in his arms, I feel safe for the first time since before cancer tried to claim me.

Morning light makes everything glow golden, and for once I wake without fear. Every inch of me aches in the best way - proof that last night wasn't just another fever dream. That the Beast can be gentle. That maybe miracles happen after all.

"Thank you," I whisper to no one, touching the marks he left on my neck. Who knew the Beast was secretly a vampire? The thought makes me giggle - apparently mind-blowing orgasms make me delirious.

Then I see him at the piano - those jeans that should be illegal, black shirt stretched across shoulders I spent hours exploring. He looks different somehow, softer. Like maybe last night broke down walls for both of us.

"Going to play for me?" My voice comes out shy, but hopeful. "We could start new traditions. You play, I dance. Maybe..." I pause, swallowing hope that tastes dangerous. "Maybe we could be happy here. Make this fortress feel like home."

The words slip out before I can catch them, but why not dream? After last night, anything feels possible. Even healing. Even love. Even if we can't have children, we could have this.

I don't hide my nakedness as I leave the bed, letting him look his fill. Heat floods my face when his eyes darken with fresh hunger. "Round three? Though maybe breakfast first - someone wore me out last night."

I'm about to suggest pancakes when the piano lid slams with enough force to rattle my bones. The sound cuts through morning peace like a blade. He moves with that same predatory grace that claimed me last night - but now there's nothing gentle left in it. His mouth takes mine in a kiss that tastes like punishment instead of passion, before his lips find my ear. The man who whispered Italian endearments against my skin, who kissed my scars like they were beautiful, disappears in the space of a heartbeat.

"Thought I wouldn't find it?" His growl carries none of last night's tenderness, none of the warmth that made me believe in second chances. Paper appears in his hand and my stomach drops through the floor. No. Please no. Not when I just found him again.

"What..." The word sticks in my throat like the pills that used to keep me alive.

The letter falls between us and my world stops spinning.

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