Page 108 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
She presses her forehead to the glass, breath fogging the pane, and whispers my name.
I reach around, slide my palm up between her breasts, over her chest, and then to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, just feeling her pulse hammer against my skin.
"You ran," I murmur, not because I need an explanation but because the words feel like ash in my mouth, sharp and bitter and old.
I keep reminding myself of this again and again, because now that I have her back, it's the last thing she will do.
I've made my mistakes.
I've lost her once, but never again, not if I can help it.
She nods against the glass. I feel the motion more than I see it.
"I had to," she says, the words trembling like the rest of her. "It wasn't safe. Not for me. Not for?—"
Her voice catches. She doesn't say his name.
I feel it now, the reason she kept him from me, the reason she ran in the first place.
I feel the guilt and the love and the sacrifice she built into that choice, and for a moment, it makes my chest ache with something close to fury.
I thrust deeper, and her cry silences the storm in my head.
"No more running," I tell her, pushing her hair aside and kissing the nape of her neck. "You do not run from me."
Her hand finds mine where I hold her steady at the hip, fingers threading through mine like she's afraid I will disappear if she lets go.
Her other hand presses flat to the glass, her body arching into mine like she's trying to climb out of herself and into me, and I feel her start to tighten, the beginning of that telltale tremble winding through her thighs.
"Enzo," she gasps, voice unraveling. "Please. I'm?—"
"I know." I bite the back of her shoulder, just enough to feel her shiver. "I've got you."
I drag it out, every movement meant to remind her what she once was to me, what she still is, and what she can never be to anyone else.
Her breath breaks with every push, soft gasps and stifled moans that make my blood run hotter, and when she starts to come, clenching around me with a cry that rattles the windowpane, I grip her tighter, drive into her harder, chasing the edge that has been haunting me for years.
My hand slides back to her throat, holding her steady, anchoring us both as the burn in my spine coils tight, as the pressure crests sharp and hard and merciless.
I feel her pulse flutter against my palm. I feel the way she melts against the glass, body limp, spent, utterly undone beneath me.
And still, I am not done.
My body pulls taut, all muscle and heat, and I groan against her shoulder, voice hoarse and low as I finally let go, slamming into her one last time as my release hits, every breath punching out of me in a rush of heat and satisfaction and something dangerously close to grief.
I spill into her with a sound I cannot name, and my forehead drops to her shoulder.
Our bodies are still joined, sweat cooling on our skin, hearts thundering in unison.
Outside the window, the city does not pause.
The night keeps spinning. But in this room, in this moment, nothing moves.
Nothing speaks.
Just the whisper of her breath.
Just the tremble of my hand as I slide it down her stomach and press it flat over the place where she carried my son.
