Page 58 of Ruthless Silence
The light outside is golden, painting our skin warm colors where we're still pressed together. His cock is still inside me, softening but neither of us willing to separate yet.
"I choose you," I sign against his chest as I whisper the words, needing him to understand this isn't about owing him or guilt or having nowhere else to go. "Every day, I choose you."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. We don't need words or signs for this. The way our bodies fit together, the way our breathing syncs, the way we hold each other like we might disappear says everything.
We're exactly who we're supposed to be.
Each other's. Completely. And God help anyone who tries to separate us now.
27 - Dante
Her fingers find my scarred throat in the afternoon light, tracing the raised tissue with a reverence that makes my chest tight and my cock hard. Weeks ago she pressed a knife here on our wedding day. Now she presses her lips to the same spot, and the contradiction of it, violence transformed to worship, breaks something inside me I didn’t know was still whole.
"Tell me about each one," Ana whispers against my skin, her breath warm where my voice used to live.
No one has ever asked. In ten years since that night, people see the scars and look away, uncomfortable with evidence of what this life demands. But Ana sees them as part of me, not something to ignore but something to understand. Her fingers move lower, finding the cigarette burns across my collarbone.
I catch her hand, bring it to my lips. Sign against her palm: "Not all at once."
"Why?" She pulls back to see my face, green eyes soft with something I'm still learning to accept. Love. Real love, not obligation or guilt.
"Too much darkness," I sign, but she shakes her head.
"Our darkness matches. Show me."
So I do. I guide her fingers to the long scar across my ribs, sign the story against her skin: "This one, protecting Marco from our father's rage. I was sixteen."
She kisses the length of it, her tongue tracing the raised tissue until my cock throbs with need. But this is about morethan want. This is about being seen, truly seen, for the first time in my life.
Her hand moves to my shoulder, finds the bullet scar there. I don't need to sign this one. She knows. A stray bullet during the massacre. The night everything changed. The night that led us here.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, but I catch her chin, force her to meet my eyes.
"Don't apologize for their sins," I sign. "We're not our fathers."
"No," she agrees, shifting to straddle my lap, her silk nightgown riding up her thighs. "We're something new."
The afternoon light turns her skin golden, and I catalog every mark I've left on her. The almost-gone bruises on her hips from gripping too hard when I took her virginity. The fading bite mark on her shoulder from our desperate coupling against the wall. The newer, gentler marks from last night, evidence of worship rather than war.
I touch each one carefully, signing apologies against her skin.
"Don't," she gasps, catching my hands. "They're mine. I earned them. I want them."
Understanding floods through me. She needs proof this is real, that we're real, that everything we've built from blood and lies has transformed into something true. My hands move to her hips, thumbs pressing against the bruises I left. She moans, rocking against me, and I feel her wetness through the thin silk.
"Need you," she signs frantically, pulling at my sleep pants.
"Have me," I sign back against her thigh, then lower my mouth to her pussy.
She's already wet, already ready, and the taste of her makes me groan silently. Salt and sweet and uniquely her, everything she is, sweet and dangerous and mine. I work her with my tongue, slow and deliberate, different from the desperate hungerof our first times. This is worship. This is gratitude. This is love translated to touch.
Her hands tangle in my hair, hips moving against my mouth as she chases her pleasure. I slide two fingers inside her, curling forward to find the spot that makes her whole body tighten. She's close, thighs trembling on either side of my head, when she pulls me up.
"Together," she signs, then guides me inside her.
The sensation of entering her steals what little breath I have. She's tight, perfect, mine. We move together, no battle for dominance now, just the ancient rhythm of lovers who've finally found home. She signs while we move, desperate communications between gasps.
I can see the apology in her face, that she is on the verge of verbalizing it, and I don't want that.
