Page 30 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He lifts his head to look at me.
His eyes are dark and wet.
His pace grows uneven.
His breath tears out of him.
I can feel him throb inside me, feel the moment just before he breaks.
He groans my name, buries himself deep and holds there, shuddering hard as release takes him.
His whole body bows over mine, muscles taut, breath hot against my neck.
The sound he makes is deep and guttural, like the last thread of restraint snapping.
We stay like that, his weight pressed into me, our hearts hammering against each other’s chests.
He kisses my temple slowly, his hands still trembling on my hips, and I close my eyes, still feeling the aftershocks flickering through me.
We don’t speak for a long time.
The echo of him is everywhere.
In the bruises blooming at my hips. In the ache between my thighs.
In the unsteady rhythm of my breath.
His weight is heavy on top of me, his chest rising and falling against my back in quiet waves.
I don’t want to move.
I want to stay in this warmth, in this stillness, in the afterglow that makes everything feel distant and almost safe.
He brushes a hand down my side, slowly and absently, fingers trailing over skin like he’s trying to memorize it while pretending he’s not.
I turn my head just enough that I can see his profile in the low light.
He looks calm, but his jaw is tight.
His eyes aren’t soft anymore.
He exhales, not quite a sigh.
Then, quieter than the space between our breaths, “I shouldn’t have stayed here…”
My heart tightens.
He hesitates, like he’s swallowing glass, and then says, “And you’re going to hate me for why.”
5
ELISA
Ican’t find the right words to fill the yawning gap between us.
Silence is what I choose instead, hoping he will tell me what he can, in his own time.
The boards turn the dawn into ribbons.
