Page 40 of Veil of Blood

My voice cracks. Dry tears slip down my cheeks. I blink them away, but the dam inside breaks.

“I ran because no one came for me,” I repeat. “Nobody called my name.”

Rocco’s grip tightens. I feel the echo of his own hurt. He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine.

“I stayed,” he says. His voice is low but fierce. “I looked for you. For years.”

I can’t speak. I can only let tears fall. Rocco wraps his arms around me, firm and anchored. I sink into him. The ledger tumbles to the floor, pages splaying wide.

He holds me while I cry—no words, just his strength. My arms circle his waist and up around his neck. His chest rises and falls steadily against mine. I bury my face in his shirt.

He responds with a hum that reverberates between us. Hands carding through my hair, pulling me tighter.

Our breathing syncs. Everything in me softens. Every broken moment before this one fades.

He pulls back slightly and cups my face, brushing damp hair away. He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. Instead, he inches closer, letting his lips hover over mine. Possibility courses through me.

I close the gap. Our lips meet, and all the tension shatters. Heat blooms between us. His mouth moves against mine—firm, sure, pulling me upright onto his lap. My legs wrap around his hips. I press into him, needing every ounce of contact.

His hand slides beneath my shirt. Fingers trace my spine until they reach the curve of my waist. I arch into him. The electric press of skin ignites something raw and alive.

My hands roam over his clothing—the button of his shirt, the belt of his jeans. He tilts his head, giving soft access to my neck. I breathe him in. The scent of sweat, leather, and care.

I tip my chin up. Our mouths open together. Heat flashes between every brush of lips, every slick press of tongues. He slides his hand higher, under the waistband of my pants. I let him. I need this.

His fingers find warmth and slide against me. A sharp breath escapes my lips. He watches me, eyes dark with understanding.

I pull at his belt, coarse teeth breaking the button off. He laughs softly, a sound of relief. He sinks a hand beneath my pants and finds me without hesitation. I gasp, fists pressed into his shoulders.

He strokes me, gentle but demanding. I tilt my hips against his palm. Pleasure coils tight in my belly. I meet his gaze, raw and open.

He leans forward, brushing his mouth across my collarbone. Each kiss is bold, mapping me like he’s learning where I carry memory and where I carry longing. My heart thuds.

I tug him closer. Our clothes shift. His shirt rides up, my bra slides down. Skin slides against skin. He hums again, and I’m adrift in that sound.

He moves one hand to the back of my tank, pulling it up and over my head. I help. My shirt goes with it. He kneels slightly to run his tongue across the tender flesh above my breast. I arch into him, breath hitching.

His mouth travels upward, brushing mine again before circling to the other breast. I grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He thrives on that, kisses mounting with purpose, as though every moment of comfort and every moment of fear are dissolved in this shared fire.

He pulls me fully into his lap. His hips shift, pressing against my thigh. I feel the hardness of him through denim. He moans low in his throat.

I lean in, pressing my breasts against his chest as I study him. In his eyes, I see care and rage and devotion all fused together.

He slips a hand beneath his jeans, palm to cock. I spread my legs wider, wanting him, not just this tenderness. He looks at me, asks without words, and I touch him. Slide my hand around the length, thumbs brushing the tip.

He lets out a low sound, guiding me until he’s firm. Then he shifts, and I position myself on his lap, sliding down until he’s at the entrance of me. I gasp, arms around his neck.

He holds me, steady as the ledger pulses forgotten on the cot. Then he pushes in. I cry out at first, a mix of shock and thrill.

He pauses. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “Only mine.”

I close my eyes and wrap my legs around him, drawing him deeper. Heat spikes in my belly, rushes outward. I move with him, grinding against his hips, clutching his shirt in my fists.

His hands find my hips, helping guide the rhythm. Each thrust lands deep. My breath comes in sharp pants. I bite his shoulder, marking him, and he laughs—a raw, happy sound.

He shifts angle, pressing downward until I’m flush against the couch. His body follows, every stroke fierce and certain. I grind up at him, matching his pace. The ledger’s pages rustle on the floor with every thrust, as if it cannot help but witness.

His kisses come again, claiming and gentle. My hands twist in his hair. Skin on skin, movement, and heart.

---