Page 13 of Unholy Night
She's close again, I can feel her pussy starting to flutter around my cock. I slide a hand between us, finding her clit, circling it with my thumb.
"Come for me, Natalie. Let me feel you."
She shatters around me with a scream, her whole body convulsing as her orgasm tears through her. The sight, the feel of her coming on my cock, sends me over the edge. I thrust up hard, burying myself deep as I come, her name a prayer on my lips.
We collapse together, breathing hard, bodies still joined. She traces lazy patterns on my chest while I stroke her hair, neither of us willing to break the connection yet.
"I should regret this," she murmurs against my skin. "But I don't."
"Good." I tilt her chin up to look at me. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
She smiles, slow and wicked. "Prove it."
This time when I roll her beneath me, it's slower, deeper, letting her feel every inch of me claiming her again. We move together like we've been doing this for years, finding a rhythm that has us both gasping. I kiss her through her second orgasm, swallowing her cries, then follow her over with her name on my lips.
Later, much later, she's draped across my chest, fingers tracing the scars that map my violent history. Only the sound of wind against windows and our gradually slowing breaths.
"Who did this?" she asks, fingers ghosting over a particularly nasty scar near my ribs.
"Someone who thought I was weak." I catch her hand, bring it to my lips. "They learned otherwise."
She shivers but doesn't pull away. This is who I am: violence and tenderness wrapped in designer suits and family loyalty. The fact that she's still here, still touching me with something approaching reverence, feels like a Christmas miracle I don't deserve.
"Will the roads really be clear tomorrow?" she asks quietly.
"Maybe. Depends on the plows." I tighten my arm around her. "Does it matter?"
She's quiet for so long I think she's fallen asleep. Then: "I don't want to leave."
The confession hangs between us, loaded and perfect. I should tell her she has to. That this was just storm-inducedinsanity. That a lawyer and a Rosetti can never be more than a spectacular mistake.
Instead, I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Then don't."
5 - Natalie
Idon’t open my eyes right away. I catalog the sensation of waking in his bed first—the expensive sheets against bare skin, the weight of his arm across my waist, the solid heat of him pressed against my back. His breathing is deep and even against my neck, and when I shift slightly, his arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer even in sleep.
This is dangerous—more dangerous than the gun on his nightstand. This quiet intimacy, this perfect fit of our bodies, the way my own breathing has synced to match his. I've woken up next to men before, but never like this. Never feeling like I've found something I didn't know I was searching for.
His hand splays across my stomach, and I study it in the morning light—those fingers that have killed, that know exactly how to take apart a weapon or a person, now holding me with infinite gentleness. There's a small scar across his knuckles I didn't notice last night. I trace it with my fingertip, and his breathing changes.
"Don't stop," he murmurs against my hair, voice rough with sleep.
I continue mapping his hand with mine, learning each line and scar. "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to memorize how you feel against me." His lips brush my shoulder. "Long enough to think of forty different ways I want to wake you up tomorrow."
Tomorrow. The word hangs between us, impossible and perfect. We both know there might not be a tomorrow, not likethis. The storm won't last forever. But right now, in this bed that smells like him and us and everything we did last night, I let myself pretend this is real. That I could wake up every morning exactly like this.
"Turn around," he says softly.
I roll in his arms to face him, and the morning light catches on the scar across his chest. The jagged line runs from his collarbone to just above his heart, old and white against his olive skin. My fingertips follow it gently. In the soft morning light, the perpetual tension in his jaw has relaxed.
Christmas morning. The realization hits me with unexpected force. It's Christmas, and I'm naked in bed with a Rosetti, his gun still on the nightstand beside his phone, loaded and ready. I trace another scar across his ribs.
The good girl in me whispers about ethics violations, about sleeping with the enemy, about careers destroyed. But the woman who's seen his restraint, who's felt him choose gentleness when violence would be easier, that woman understands this is bigger than law.
"Stop thinking so loud," he murmurs against my hair, voice rough with sleep and something darker.
