Page 76 of Fire and Silk
I tilt my head back, eyes fluttering shut, letting the spray soak through my hair, down my neck, over my breasts. My body is sore in that deeply satisfied, unmistakably fucked way — thighs aching, wrists still marked faintly from where he tied me down.
I press my palm to the tile behind me and slide the other hand up to cup my breast. My nipple tightens instantly under my touch, still tender from where his mouth had latched onto it justhours ago. I rub slow circles with my thumb, biting back a moan as the memory hits me all over again.
I slide my hand lower, across the slope of my belly, until I reach my mound. I’m already aching there — swollen, slick from the memory alone. My fingers glide through folds that are still sore, still wet, and I gasp as I find that sensitive little spot just above my entrance. I rub slow, then faster, pressing in little circles that make my knees weak under the rush of water.
“Severo…” I whisper his name under my breath like a prayer, like a curse, like a promise.
The pulse of pleasure tightens low in my belly as I picture him again. The sound of my own moan echoes in the steam, and I don’t care. I work my fingers faster, the heel of my palm grinding down for pressure, legs spread slightly as I brace against the wall. My other hand comes up to pinch my nipple, and my back arches into the sensation, my hips rolling helplessly into every stroke.
“Please—” I gasp, even though he isn’t here. Even though the only one touching me is me.
But it doesn’t matter, not when I canfeelhim in every pulse of heat inside me. Not when my body still feels stretched, marked, claimed.
I picture him standing in that doorway again, shirt unbuttoned, jaw tight, eyes fixed on me like I was a meal.
My body tightens, and then it hits — the rush of release ripping through me like a tidal wave, sudden and unstoppable. I cry out as I come, thighs trembling, cunt pulsing around nothing but memory. The water pounds against my skin as I ride it out, shuddering, braced against the tile like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I collapse back against the wall, chest heaving, lips parted as I breathe him out in shaky exhales. My hand drops away slowly, fingers slick, thighs soaked from more than just the water.
****
The robe clings damp to my collarbones. I cinch it tightly at the waist, the cotton heavy from steam. My cheeks are flushed, but not from the water anymore.
The mirror is fogged.
I wipe a small oval in the glass, just enough to catch my own reflection. My lips are parted. My lashes damp. The woman staring back looks like she just learned a secret and hasn’t decided if it’s a blessing or a curse.
I step out of the bathroom, bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. The hotel room feels dimmer now. Softer.
Mico is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, scrolling absently through something on his phone. The muscles in his back shift as he looks up—and the moment he sees me, he stands.
He crosses the room in two strides and wraps his arms around me. The scent of clean skin and the faintest trace of his cologne folds around me like memory.
“I love you, Lira,” he murmurs into my hair.
His voice is low. Certain.
My body reacts before my mind does—shoulders lifting subtly, throat catching.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his fingers brushing my cheek. “When we get to Italy,” he says, “let’s get married.”
There was a time those words would have lit me up from the inside. I would’ve cried. I would’ve believed.
Now they feel like someone else’s fantasy. One I don’t know how to wear anymore.
I lift the corners of my lips into something that passes for a smile. “We’ll talk about it properly later,” I say gently.
He nods, but he studies me—his eyes searching for something behind the smile. Then he reaches for my chin, tilts it up with two fingers, and leans in. His lips hover above mine. Slow. Careful. Waiting.
I turn my face to the side.
His kiss lands softly against my cheek.
“I’m not ready,” I say, barely above a whisper.
A pause.
He nods. “I understand. I’ll wait.”
