Page 63 of Blood Heir

“Fuck—” he growls, voice hoarse, strangled. “You’re so fucking perfect—so tight—I can’t—”

And then I feel it.

The sudden hot flood of him spilling inside me. Thick, warm, pulsing deep as his cock throbs and empties, filling me completely.

The sensation rips through me like lightning.

My orgasm crashes into me so hard I sob—my back arching, thighs trembling violently as my pussy clenches around him, milking every drop.

“Ah—ahh—oh God!” I cry out, voice breaking as the waves of pleasure consume me, each pulse stronger than the last, my entire body shaking under him.

He groans against my ear, holding me tight, his hands gripping my waist as though anchoring himself while my body convulses around him. His cock stays buried deep, twitching inside me as my release coats him, blending with his warmth.

The sounds of our panting fill the air, his chest heaving behind me as his thrusts finally grind deep inside, like he never wants to leave my body.

The aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through my core as I sag against the floor, completely undone in his hands.

Chapter 15 - Fioretta

I stir awake, the sunlight slicing through the heavy curtains in narrow golden stripes across the bed. The sheets feel foreign, softer than my own. I blink, disoriented for a moment, and then I feel it—his hand, warm and heavy, wrapped around mine.

I’m naked beneath the covers.

He sits beside me, shirtless, his head slightly bowed as he studies my hand resting in his palm. His fingers shift and slide the ring over my finger.

I stare at it, at the glint of metal circling my skin.

“Fioretta,” his voice is low, almost tender, “can we start over?”

My throat tightens as I look up at him. His eyes hold that familiar weight again, the one that both steadies and unnerves me.

“Can it not matter what our past was?” he asks softly, thumb brushing my knuckle. “Can we begin from this moment? No history. Just us. Here.”

I swallow. My voice barely breaks free. “It’s not fair,” I whisper. “You remember, but I don’t.”

I study his face. That hard exterior that always seems seconds away from crumbling. “But something tells me…” My words falter as my chest constricts. “Something tells me I’ve always yielded to you.”

He leans forward and kisses me. Not the hungry kind we’ve shared before. This is slow. Firm. His lips mold to mine as though he’s memorizing the shape of me. My body arches toward him, instinctive, familiar even if my mind isn’t. Hishands explore me like a man learning his own property again. I gasp into his mouth when his hand slips lower.

His mouth trails down my neck, my chest, lower still. My back bows. My fingers twist into his hair. When I come, my breath shudders out of me and my body collapses into the mattress.

I lay still for a moment, flushed, my chest rising and falling in uneven waves. But then I pull away, slipping out from under him, needing space, needing air.

I pad toward the bathroom on wobbly legs, my skin still prickling from the aftershocks. The cool tile greets my bare feet. I turn the shower knobs and warm water pours out in a steady stream.

The glass door swings open behind me. I hear his steps on the tile, feel his presence before I see him.

He steps in, fully nude, sliding in behind me like he belongs there. The water washes over both of us, cascading along my back, his chest pressing lightly against it.

His hands gather soap, lathering it slowly, methodically. I close my eyes as his palms glide across my shoulders, my spine, my hips. There’s something grounding in the way he touches me—like he’s not just cleaning me, but claiming me.

He dips his head forward, mouth brushing my ear. His voice is soft, coaxing. “Come watch a movie with me.”

I blink under the spray, turning slightly to meet his gaze. “A movie?”

He smiles. “Your favorite. Or… it used to be.”

A flash of sadness tugs at me. That empty gap between who I was and who I am. But his eyes hold no pressure. Only a quiet hope.

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