Page 48 of His to Destroy

“Oh my God,” I cry out, voice breaking as he slams into me harder. “Don’t stop. Gaspare, please—don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He pounds into me with growing urgency, the rhythm wild, perfect, relentless. The bed rocks beneath us. The headboard continues to tap the wall. My breath comes in broken gasps, every nerve ending lit on fire.

His lips find my neck, sucking, biting just enough to make me cry out again as the tension in my belly coils tighter and tighter.

I arch up to meet him, every thrust pushing me closer to the edge. My moans fill the room now—loud, shameless, unstoppable.

“Right there—right there—yes, yes—!”

I explode around him, body convulsing, walls clenching, back arching off the bed as my orgasm crashes through me like a storm. I cry his name, shaking, undone.

Gaspare shudders, groaning deeply as he thrusts once, twice more before he buries himself to the hilt, holding still as he spills into me with a broken gasp.

We collapse together, skin slick with sweat, hearts racing in sync.

Gaspare wraps his arms around me, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder, then my neck.

“This wasn’t gratitude,” I whisper against his skin. “It was love.”

He pulls me closer, whispering back: “I know.”

We lie wrapped in silence, skin against skin, our breaths slowly returning to normal as the sweat on our skin starts to dry off. Gaspare’s arms stay firm around me, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

I rest my head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat grounding me. It’s steady. Strong. Comforting in a way I never expected to find in him.

But I can’t sleep yet. Not completely. Not with the fear still lingering behind my ribs like a ghost refusing to leave.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” I murmur, starting to sit up.

Gaspare hums, his hand trailing down my arm as I slide out of bed and reach for his shirt. I pull it on over my head—it smells like him, warm and masculine and grounding.

As I head toward the bedroom door, his voice stops me.

“You forget where your bathroom is, angel?”

I freeze, glancing over my shoulder.

“Hmm?” he adds, teasing, half-smiling in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. “You planning to take the scenic route?”

My throat tightens.

“I, um… I’m parched. I was going to grab a glass of water.”

One of his eyebrows rises.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I say too quickly. “Thirsty. Really thirsty.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling. “By all means then, go hydrate.”

I nod once—too sharply—and slip out the door before I embarrass myself further.

But I don’t go to the kitchen.

My feet move on instinct.

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