you how long I spend there, in his arms. All I know is that I never want to leave.

The feeling of his bareness against me, a thin blanket tossed over us, is a reminder of the way we fit together, hot and tender and slow, and I don't need anything else.

My head rests against his shoulder and his fingers run lightly through my hair, and I hear his heart beating beneath my ear, strong and alive.

There was a time, long, long ago, where I thought maybe he didn't have one. But he does, and I can hear it, and it makes me feel like he is mine and I am his in the only way that possibly matters.

My lips brush against his skin when I speak. "Nero?"

"Mm?" He places a soft kiss to the top of my head.

As I breathe, the rise and fall of my chest matches his. I feel a strong, consuming emotion towards this man that I can't deny, not now, not after everything.

"You're gonna be okay, right?" He must hear the concern in my voice, the way that I care about his safety even though I have every reason not to. My small hands rest softly against his chest.

He rests his lips against my temple, brushing my hair back from my face. "Don't worry about me." There's a tenderness in his words that makes my heart ache.

"I can't help it."

I turn so we are nose to nose, and I can see the fine details of his long lashes, the smoothness of his skin and the softness, dark, in his eyes. My hand rests against his hip, he brings a finger up to touch my cheek, our breaths fill the small space between us, warm.

He looks like he is capable of no harm, and I should know better. I really should. But I don't.

After forever, he speaks, just a low breath. "I'm no good for you, dolcezza." His gaze is so incredibly bright, so gentle, so dark.

I lean into him and he leans into me and this feels too right to be wrong, too good to possibly be bad. "It's too late for that, Nero." Our lips almost touch. There isn't a part of me that doesn't want him. And he knows it, he knows.

That I'm ruined. And I don't care.

"I should stay away from you." He says it, but he doesn't move even an inch.

"I should stay away from you, too." There is no conviction. I bring my fingers up, push them gently into his hair, let the rise and fall of our chests match, beat for beat.

His eyes flutter shut, then mine. Neither of us is capable of pulling away, getting up and leaving, comprehending how this is just impossible. It feels too real. It fills every space, every piece of me, and I can't let go.

It feels like something needs to be said, something that can describe this. But there are no words to describe the heaviness, the magnetic energy that pulls us together and makes me want him and need him and makes him hold me, look at me, like I'm the only one he'll ever see.

There aren't any words.

So I just follow the heat that spreads from our heads to our toes, settles, tugging, between my legs.

I let him capture my lips and I hold him, I slide softly onto him with his face between my fingers and his hands gripping me by the hips because there aren't words but there is this, the truth in his touch, in my every breath and sigh, moan and whimper.

And I trust him and he trusts me because with our skin pressed together and our mouths and hands gentle, tender, I brush against him, lightly, there, and neither of us has any arguments when I guide my hips in line with his, and he's in me again, not a single barrier between us, and we tell each other everything we could ever need to, every confession and worry and desire and maybe we should be more careful but I cannot be anything but safe in these arms.

And maybe I don't know much about him but I do know what he feels like, everywhere, the sounds he makes, the pattern of it as I press down and he thrusts upwards and I know the incredible softness in his lips, the tenderness in his touch.

And I know, oh, I know how when we melt together like this my whole world climbs and climbs and climbs until, as high as the stars, everything explodes into brightness, so impossibly, incredibly shattering. And I know that when he finishes, in me, it's not dirty it's just complete. Makes everything whole again.

And I can feel every piece of him, and he can feel every piece of me, and it is truth. It is right.

•§•

holds me after is indescribably soft. His hands rest on my skin and his fingers drift gently through my hair and his lips are just a whisper against my head, as I lie bare, on top of him.

I pepper him with small kisses and run my hands through the waves of his dark hair, pressing us together, gentle and affectionate. And I gift him a little goofy, suppressed grin because that was easily the best sex of my life, and the look on his face is lighter than I have ever seen.

His eyes are bright, warm, and they melt as they watch me. My breath catches because he's so, so beautiful, and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing he ever wants to see.

All the insecure parts of me want to believe it's fake, just for show. But the way his fingers press into my skin and the way his mouth tilts up just that way and the sides of his eyes crinkle I know he adores me, somehow.

It hurts, it feels amazing at the same time.

"Somehow that was even better than I imagined." He says it with a small, teasing grin, and it makes me blush.

I mumble my indignation into his neck. "I don't know if I'm more offended that you imagined me having sex with you, or that you imagined that I wasn't any good."

He chuckles, and I feel it vibrate, rumbling across my skin. Brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear, he speaks against my temple, laughter in his voice. "First of all, I've wanted you since you ran into me in the hall that first time, and you wanted me too."

I smile into his neck, because I can remember that day so long ago, the darkness in his gaze, the way he left me spellbound, and his confession fills my cheeks with pink.

His head nudges mine, tender. "And I knew you would be good." He coaxes me from his shoulder so that our noses meet, my lashes fluttering against his cheeks, lips almost touching. His voice is low, quiet. "But that wasn't good, that was..." His fingers travel slowly down my hip, my skin tingling from his touch. He looks at me, full of wonder, and his lips tilt into a knowing, sparkling grin.

I have no response, the way his dark eyes melt into mine, his hands a whisper against my hips, my waist, my back.

So I let him capture my lips, lean into him, hold him and feel him as he holds me.

Everything with him, every breath and touch and word, is better than in my wildest dreams.

Nothing exists besides him, besides me. Just small laughter, soft touches, lips and mouths and hands all over, making up for all the times we could have, when we didn't.

He's a different person, somehow. So am I.

•§•

to kill me," I breathe after I fall off of him, pleasure still gripping my tired body.

We've abandoned all memory of the outside world, content to spend the day in his bed, in each other's arms. I've lost count of the number of times he's been inside me.

His fingers tangle into mine as my hand rests softly on his panting chest, and he lets out a heavy groan. "Don't remind me." He swears quietly in Italian. "She'll kill me first if she finds out."

I giggle, turning so our chests are flush. "Would it have been worth it?" I whisper near his ear, my breath tickling his skin.

He brings a large hand up to brush my face, his fingers gripping my cheek softly. Tugging our heads closer together, our mouths almost touch. "Every second." His eyes smolder. "I'd give anything to never have to stop touching you, gioia mia."

A faint blush stains my cheeks, and my gaze rests on the dip of his collarbone. The scary thing is that he sounds completely sincere. "Anything?" I breathe into his skin.

He knows what I'm thinking so he sighs, resting his head gently on top of mine. "I'm figuring out a way, dolcezza."

And this is news to me, and he sees the shock on my face, gives me a small, tired smile. My eyes find his, pleading, silently, for him to explain. To tell me something, anything, that would make things okay.

He takes my face in his palm, running a thumb across my cheek. "I'm not as evil as you think, Rosalyn..." He lets out a heavy sigh, and I can see the tired lines in his forehead, just thinking about it.

I bury my head into his shoulder, whispering against his skin. "I don't think you're evil, Nero."

His lips tilt up at the corners, a little. "That would make you the first in a long time."

The idea makes me so sad, sad for him, sad about the world we live in. I hold him a little closer, wondering. About him, his story. About how the hell we got here.

His voice tickles my ear softly. "You don't need to feel sorry for me, dolcezza." His nose brushes against my hair. "I made my own choices. I've lived with the consequences."

I breathe, smelling the familiar scent of him, so inexplicably comforting. I pull back, run my hands a little through the thick waves of his dark hair. His eyes meet mine, and my heart aches.

I think back briefly to that time, long ago, in the courthouse, me pressed against the wall, him leaning over me.

That's a story neither of us has time for.

You should tell me, sometime.

Maybe. But then I'd scare you away forever.

He must see the far-away look in my eyes because he brings a gentle hand to my face, pulling me back to the present.

My eyes fluttering shut, words escape from my thoughts into the warm space between us. "What comes next, Nero?"

I feel as he leans closer, breathing softly against my skin, a small sigh spilling from his mouth.

His strong hands grip my hips, pulling me back on top of him, and our bodies are covered in a slick layer of sweat from the last few hours. The air around us is warm, it smells of sex. Of him, of me. He mumbles into my ear. "Next you tell me that I didn't just get you pregnant."

I blush, burying my face into his warm neck. "I'll get some

Plan B later."

I feel it as he exhales gently. My chest falls and rises with his.

In the silence, our hands caress each other softly, running across smooth skin, taught muscles. I nestle into the crook of his neck, brushing my fingers against his chest.

"Dolcezza," he whispers, his fingers digging into my hips. "You drive me fucking insane."

His hands slide across my bare skin, pressing our bodies together, and it astounds me how well my curves fit against him, how right it feels.

"Nero." I moan into his neck, and already the space between my legs is slick. Heat settles between my thighs. My lips brush against his ear. The tilt of my hips tells him exactly what I want.

He lets out a small growl. I feel him twitch beneath me, and it only takes seconds for me to wrap my legs around his torso, for him to slide into me. His fingers tug at my hair, my teeth scrape against his neck, my hands grip the muscle of his arms.

We take full advantage of each other, and soon we are both panting. The sound of it is so erotic, and my tired, sensitive body shivers with bliss.

"Fuck, Nero," I whimper. The pleasure takes hold of me, gripping so tight, and he thrusts deliciously into me. Somehow, he knows just the right way to hit every nerve, each soft piece of me. I climax hard, crying out his name, and he follows seconds later, tensing, and then relaxes under my spent body.

I collapse against the cold sheets, exhausted after six intense orgasms, maybe more.

"I'm going to be so sore tomorrow," I whisper.

He chuckles. I feel his fingers tangle gently with mine before I drift into sleep.

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