Page 57 of Ruthless Silence
He signs with one hand, the other gently stroking my hair: "No rush. Only what you want."
What I want is to please him like he's pleased me. To show him with my body what words can never fully express. I lean forward, tentatively running my tongue along the underside of his cock. The taste is unfamiliar but not unpleasant—salt and musk and something uniquely him.
His hand tightens in my hair, not pushing, just holding on as if I'm his anchor in a storm. Emboldened, I take the head into my mouth, my lips stretching around his thickness. I can only manage a few inches before I feel the threat of gagging, but thestrangled sound he makes—one of the few noises his damaged throat allows—fills me with fierce pride.
I establish a rhythm, taking what I can of his length while my hand works what won't fit. His breathing grows ragged above me, his stomach muscles clenching beneath my free hand. I look up to find him watching me with an intensity that should frighten me but only makes me bolder.
When I hollow my cheeks and suck harder, his hips jerk involuntarily. He immediately signs an apology, but I shake my head, releasing him just long enough to whisper, "It's okay. I want all of you."
I take him deeper this time, fighting my gag reflex, tears springing to my eyes as I push past my comfort. His hand cups my face with infinite tenderness, thumb brushing away a tear. The gesture, so gentle amid such raw desire, makes something crack open inside me.
His cock pulses against my tongue, and I can tell he's close by the tension in his thighs, the way his breathing turns to silent gasps.
His arms come around me suddenly, lifting me from the floor. I wrap myself around him instinctively, trusting him to carry me wherever he wants. Not to the study with its desk full of complicated memories. Not to the guest room where distance lived between us.
To our bedroom. Our bed. The one where I've slept alone while he kept watch from that torturous leather chair.
He sets me down beside the bed with infinite care, like I might shatter from rough handling. His hands move to my clothing, but slowly, waiting for permission. I nod, helping him when his fingers shake slightly.
This is nothing like before. When he took my virginity on his desk, it was all hunger and desperate need, violence andpleasure twisted together. This is worship. Every touch reverent, every kiss an apology for the pain we've caused each other.
My clothes pool at my feet. His clothes follow, and we stand naked before each other in the afternoon light. I trace his scars with trembling fingers, so many, too many, and he lets me explore each one. Learning the geography of his sacrifice, the price of protecting people who thought him monster. His fingers trace the fading bruise on my hip, his mark from when passion turned violent.
"I'm sorry," he signs.
"Don't be," I tell him. "I wanted your marks then. I want new ones now. Gentle ones. Love bites instead of war wounds."
When he lays me on our bed, his touch is so gentle I want to cry. Actually, I am crying, slow tears that he kisses away as his scarred hands map my body like he's writing music on my skin, each touch a note in a symphony only we can hear.
"Please," I whisper, pulling him closer. "I need you. Need to feel you. Need to know this is real."
He enters me slowly, our eyes locked, and the feeling overwhelms me completely. The stretch of his cock filling me, the weight of him above me, the heat of skin against skin. His hand wraps loosely around my throat, not threatening, but claiming. His thumb presses against my pulse where it races for him. "Mine," he mouths against my lips, the word I can read without signs.
"Yours," I breathe back, and his control cracks. His next thrust goes deeper, harder, like he's trying to brand himself inside me. My pussy clenches around him, drawing him deeper, and we both groan at the sensation.
This is it. This is home. Finally home. Not a place with walls and doors, but this: him inside me, around me, choosing me despite everything. After all the wandering, all the hatred, all thesearching for who I'm supposed to be, I'm finally exactly where I belong.
Finalmente a casa, finally home. The feeling settles in my bones.
We move together in perfect synchronization, the same way we fought in that restaurant, but this is creation instead of destruction. Building something new from the ashes of who we used to be. His hands frame my face as he moves inside me, and I see my own wonder reflected in his eyes. His cock hits that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, and my nails dig into his shoulders.
"Dante," I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips.
His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure to push me toward the edge. The dual sensation of his cock filling me and his thumb on my clit sends lightning through my veins.
When the pleasure crests, I sign "I love you" against his chest, over his heart, over the worst scars. He signs it back against my skin, fingers trembling as his own release follows mine. I feel him pulse inside me, filling me with heat, marking me from the inside. We shatter together, but this time we're breaking into something whole instead of broken pieces.
We lie tangled together in our bed, truly ours now, as afternoon fades toward evening. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder while I press kisses to whatever skin I can reach. The leather chair sits empty across the room, a monument to the distance we've finally crossed.
"No more chair," I say against his throat, feeling him shiver at the words.
"No more chair," he agrees, his hand finding mine to lace our fingers together.
"We're married now," I continue, the wonder of it making me smile. "Actually married. Not just the contract or the ceremony. This. Us. Real."
He pulls back to look at me, and I see that almost-smile playing at his lips. His hands move carefully: "Four weeks to figure out what everyone else knows at the altar."
"Everyone else doesn't have our baggage," I point out, and he actually huffs a silent laugh, shoulders shaking with it.
