Page 42 of Veil of Blood

I offer a small smile. “I’ll take it.”

Back in the room, the hum of a static TV fills the space. Chiara stands by the dresser, fingers fidgeting with a makeup case. She’s alert, raw, patching herself back together like each layer of gauze is a promise.

I sit on the edge of the bed. My boots press into the thin carpet. “You gonna tell me why you vanished?” I ask, voice even.

She crosses her arms. “Because staying meant dying. For both of us.”

I let that sink in. I clap my hands together once. “And now?”

She glances at the ledger, then back at me. “Now I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Except this.” She steps toward me, heels clicking on the floor.

I spread my legs, staying low. She stops between them, close enough I can smell her—soap and adrenaline and something softer beneath. I reach up, fingers brushing the nape of her neck.

She shivers against my hand. “Rocco….”

Her name tastes like promise and confession. My thumb glides along her jawline, but I hesitate. I need to be gentle. This moment isn’t about passion; it’s about finding truth.

She leans in, brushing her lips to mine. A soft press. A test. I close my eyes and respond, tipping her head back. My otherhand cups her cheek. She melts against me, breath warm. The ledger, forgotten, rustles on the bed behind us.

I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She parts her lips, welcoming me deeper. My heart thumps—steady, alive.

We kiss, slow and certain. Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, exploring. I hold her, matching her rhythm. Every second grounded in a quiet promise: we’re here now, together, finally.

And for once, all the betrayals and lies fall away beneath this simple, steady kiss.

The bed groans under our weight, the thin mattress sinking as Rocco kneels in front of me, his hands already at the hem of my shirt. His fingers graze my stomach, warm and rough, and he pulls the fabric up slowly, exposing my skin inch by inch—my navel, my ribs, the curve of my breasts.

My nipples harden in the cool air as he tugs the shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. His eyes rake over me, dark and hungry, lingering on the way my breasts rise with each breath. I don’t wait for him to move next.

I grab his shirt, yanking it up, my nails scraping his abs as I pull it off, revealing his broad chest, the dark hair trailing down to his jeans, the Ferrano tattoo stark against his skin.

We’re not rushing, not apologizing—just taking our time, rediscovering every inch of each other. My hands roam his chest, fingers digging into the hard muscle, feeling the heat of him, the faint sheen of sweat already forming.

He groans low in his throat, a sound that makes my core clench, and I push him back onto the bed, climbing over him, my knees straddling his hips. My Ferrano chain dangles between us, the cold silver brushing his chest as I lean down, my lips crashing into his. His mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine, wet and slick, as his hands grip my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp into the kiss.

“You still want me?” I whisper, my lips brushing his, my breath ragged.

“Never stopped,” he growls, his voice rough, his handstightening on me like he’s staking a claim.

I grind my hips down, feeling the bulge in his jeans, thick and hard, pressing against my core through my pants.

The friction sends a jolt of heat through me, and I moan softly, rolling my hips again, slower this time, teasing him. His hands slide up my back, unclasping my bra with a flick of his fingers, and it falls away, my breasts spilling free.

He doesn’t hesitate, cupping them, his thumbs brushing my nipples, circling the hard peaks until they ache. I arch into his touch, my head tipping back, and he leans up, his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking fast, then slow, drawing a sharp cry from my throat.

“Fuck, Rocco,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he switches to the other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, biting just enough to make my pussy throb. My hands move to his jeans, fumbling with the button, the zipper, desperate to feel him. He lifts his hips, helping me shove the denim down, his boxers following, until his cock springs free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum.

I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the veins pulse under my fingers, the way he twitches when my thumb swipes over the head.

He groans, his head falling back, his abs flexing as I pump him, my grip firm, my pace deliberate.

“Chiara,” he grits out, his voice strained, and I lean down, licking a slow stripe up his shaft, tasting the salt of him, the heat of his skin. His hips jerk, a low curse escaping his lips, and I takehim into my mouth, my lips stretching around his thickness, my tongue swirling around the tip before I slide down, taking him deeper.

His hand fists in my hair, guiding me, not forcing, just enough to make me feel his need. I bob my head, sucking hard, my cheeks hollowing, my other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, and I pull off with a wet pop, smirking as I climb back up, straddling him again.

My pants are still on, and he doesn’t waste time, his fingers undoing the button, yanking them down along with my panties. I kick them off, and now I’m bare, my pussy slick and aching, hovering over his cock. I rub myself against him, sliding my wetness along his length, coating him, teasing us both until I’m trembling, my clit throbbing with every pass.

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