Page 71 of Veil of Blood

My cheek rests against his collarbone, my fingers sliding along his back, tracing the familiar lines of muscle through his shirt.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “For not making this harder than it already is.”

His arms wrap around me, strong and steady, pulling me closer. “I could,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice. “But I won’t. You were never mine to hold.”

I lift my head and kiss him, the contact deep, heavy with everything we can’t put into words. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but it’s not soft either—firm, hungry, a quick spark that ignites fast.

His hands press into my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me feel him, and my fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly, pulling a low groan from his throat.

I pull back, just enough to catch my breath, and nod toward the garage door, my voice low, teasing.

“Come with me. One last time. Don’t make me drag you like I did in that blood-soaked garage.”

He chuckles, the sound rough and warm, his eyes glinting with memory. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Chiara. I was the one pinning you to that hood.”

I smirk, stepping back, pulling him with me. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Inside, the garage is dim, the high windows letting in just enough gray light to see by.

The worktable, still littered with tools, shop rags, and an open socket set from when I rebuilt the engine last week, is my target. I shove half the mess aside with one arm, wrenches clattering to the concrete, and turn to face him, my pulse already racing.

I peel off my jacket, letting it drop to the floor, the motion quick but deliberate. My shirt follows, yanked over my head, exposing my bra, my nipples already hard against the thin fabric.

Rocco steps in, his mouth finding my neck, his lips hot and firm, kissing a path to my pulse point, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.

His fingers unhook my bra with practiced ease, like he’s done it a hundred times—maybe he has, in the lives we’ve lived together. The bra falls, my breasts bare, and he cups them, his thumbs circling my nipples, pinching lightly, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core.

“Faster than last time,” I tease, my voice breathy, my hands already working the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with quick, practiced flicks.

“You were all slow and sentimental on that hood.”

He laughs, low and rough, his chest rising under my hands as I push his shirt open, revealing the scar from the docks, a jagged reminder of his past.

“Sentimental? I had you screaming my name in ten seconds flat.”

“Keep dreaming,” I shoot back, shoving his shirt off his shoulders, my nails scraping his skin, leaving faint red lines.

He pulls off his belt, the buckle hitting the concrete with a thud, and I unzip my jeans, wiggling them down my hips, kicking them aside with my panties, leaving me bare, my pussy already wet, glistening in the dim light.

He shoves his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the tip slick with precum, and I lick my lips, the sight making my core clench.

He lifts me onto the worktable, the cold metal biting into my ass, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him close, his cock pressing against my inner thigh, hot and heavy. His palms press flat against my back, pulling me forward, my breasts brushing his chest, the contact sending sparks through me.

“No foreplay bullshit,” I say, my voice sharp, teasing. “You took forever last time, licking me like you were writing a damn poem.”

He grins, his hands gripping my hips, positioning himself at my entrance. “You loved every second of that poem, Chiara.”

“Prove it,” I challenge, and he thrusts in, slow but deep, filling me in one smooth stroke, stretching me, the sudden fullness pulling a moan from my throat.

I hold my breath, my hands gripping the edge of the table, the metal creaking under us as he sets a steady rhythm, each thrust quick but precise, anchoring us in the moment.

His forehead presses to mine, our breaths mingling, hot and ragged, and I arch into him, my pussy clenching around him, dragging friction that makes him groan, low and guttural.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, his hand sliding into my hair, not pulling, just holding, his fingers tangled in the strands.

I lean back, bracing my hands behind me on the table, the angle letting him push deeper, his cock hitting that spot that makes my toes curl.

“Better than the hood?” I gasp, smirking through the pleasure, my legs tightening around him, urging him faster.

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