Page 72 of Veil of Blood

“Fuck the hood,” he growls, his thrusts picking up speed, the table rocking under us, tools clattering to the floor. I laugh, the sound cut off by a moan as he angles his hips, driving harder, the wet sound of our bodies filling the garage, mingling with my gasps, his grunts.

His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, and I cry out, my hips bucking, the sensation pushing me toward the edge.

“Don’t you dare slow down” I pant, my nails digging into his shoulders, leaving marks, and he chuckles, his thumb pressing harder, his cock slamming into me, relentless, the pace quick and dirty, just what I need. I reach down, cupping his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten, and he curses, his rhythm faltering, his control slipping.

“Chiara, fuck,” he groans, his voice raw, and I squeeze around him, my pussy pulsing, dragging him deeper.

I come hard, biting my lip to stifle the scream, my body trembling, my pussy clamping down on him, pleasure ripping through me in sharp, electric waves. He’s right there with me, still thrusting, his cock buried deep, his mouth catching my moan in a messy kiss, his tongue plunging into my mouth, swallowing my sounds.

His hips jerk once, twice, and he comes, spilling inside me, hot and thick, his groan muffled against my lips, his hands tightening on my hips, holding me close.

We stay locked together, breathing hard, the table still under us, the garage quiet except for our ragged breaths. His head rests against my shoulder, his lips brushing my skin, andmy fingers trace down his spine, slow and steady, grounding us both.

I pull back slightly, smirking, my voice teasing. “Quicker than last time, but you still owe me that poem.”

He laughs, the sound rough and warm, his hands still on my hips, reluctant to let go. “Next time, I’ll write you a fucking novel.”

I whisper, my voice soft but firm, “This doesn’t mean I’m staying.”

He exhales through his nose, his eyes meeting mine, steady and sure. “Didn’t ask you to.”

We slide off the table, pulling our clothes back on, the motions quick but not rushed, our bodies still buzzing from the heat of it.

I tug my jeans up, zipping them, the denim clinging to my thighs, and pull my hoodie on, the chain settling against my chest. He buttons his shirt, his belt clinking as he fastens it, and we stand there, the space between us charged but not heavy.

I grab the keys from the table, their jingle sharp in the quiet, and head for the garage door, my boots echoing on the concrete.

I nod, slipping through the door, the early light painting the lot outside in muted tones. The car door creaks as I open it, shutting with a firm click. The engine roars to life, tuned to perfection, and I shift gears, pulling out without looking back.But I feel him, a steady presence in my spine, as I take the turn and head into the dawn.

The cold from the worktable is still in my spine. My limbs ache, not from the fight, but from the part of me I just gave back. Not because I had to—but because I wanted to. Because I meant it.

My hoodie slides over my arms. I tug the zipper up halfway. The fabric smells like the garage. Like him. Like me.

Behind me, Rocco sits on a low stool. Elbows on his knees, hands together. He watches me dress, but not like a man clinging to the last glimpse. He’s just…there. Present. Holding space, not gripping it.

My chain catches on the hem of my hoodie. I untangle it, slide it back around my neck, and let it rest against my chest.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

I grab the keys from the workbench and tuck them into my pocket. My fingers brush his when I pass. He doesn’t grab. I don’t stop.

Outside, the sun’s risen just enough to catch on puddles. They scatter light across the damp pavement like discarded glass. The engine’s still on, humming low, as if it’s ready to go before I am.

Rocco follows me out into the alley. He’s two steps behind, then beside me when I reach the car. I unlock the door, but I don’t get in yet.

The quiet between us isn’t heavy. It just is.

Then the screech hits.

Tires on asphalt.

The kind of sound that jerks your gut before your brain catches up.

A black sedan skids around the corner at the far end of the alley. Doors pop open.

One guy.

Big. Armed. Screaming already.

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