Chapter 68 Fiorella
Heat spread through my body as Rocco’s lips moved against mine, slow and deliberate, as if he was savouring every second, every breath. His hands trailed over my waist, firm and possessive, while I clutched onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
The air between us was thick with longing, a slow burn that had been building for too long. Every brush of his lips sent sparks down my spine, every touch igniting something deeper inside me.
I tilted my head, letting him deepen the kiss, his fingers sliding into my hair, gripping just enough to make me gasp softly against his mouth. His control unraveled just slightly at the sound, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pressed me gently down onto the bed, his weight settling over me, warm and solid.
The feeling of him so close, his scent surrounding me—woodsy, rich, utterly intoxicating—sent my heart racing. I ran my hands up his back, feeling the hard lines of his muscles, the tension coiled beneath his skin. It was thrilling, knowing that I could affect him this way. That he wanted me just as much as I wanted him.
His lips left mine only to trail lower, across my jaw, down my neck. My breath hitched as he found the sensitive spot just beneath my ear, his tongue flicking against my skin before he sucked lightly, his teeth grazing ever so slightly. I shivered, my fingers digging into his back.
“Rocco…” His name slipped from my lips in a whisper, part plea, part surrender.
His hand slid beneath the thin fabric of my nightgown, fingertips gliding over my bare skin, exploring, memorising. My body arched into him instinctively, craving more, craving him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against my collarbone before capturing my lips again, his kiss deeper this time, filled with unspoken promises.
Everything about this moment felt right, like we were meant to be tangled up like this, lost in each other. There was nothing else—no wars, no enemies, no revenge—just us.
The warmth of Rocco’s hands on my skin sent a slow burn through my veins, every touch igniting something deeper than just desire—it was an unspoken promise, an unraveling of walls neither of us had realized we were still holding up.
He moved above me, his gaze dark with hunger but softened with something more—something that made my chest tighten. Reverence. Devotion. As if I were something precious, something to be cherished, not just taken. His fingers trailed over my cheek, then my throat, his touch soft, as though memorising every inch of me.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick, rough. His lips followed the path his fingers had just traced, leaving warmth in their wake. “Every inch of you, Fiorella.”
I shivered beneath him, my heart pounding. “You say that like you mean it,” I whispered, my voice barely there.
He pulled back just enough for our eyes to meet. “I do.”
There was no teasing, no arrogance—only raw sincerity. My breath caught as his fingers traced the side of my face, then moved lower, spreading warmth wherever they touched. He was in no rush, savouring me like I was something rare, something worth taking his time with.
And God, I was melting under him.
I let my own hands explore, my fingers pressing into his back, feeling the strength beneath my touch, the way his muscles flexed as he moved. I wanted him to feel what he made me feel. Wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone in this. That I was just as consumed.
His lips captured mine again, slow and deep, as if he had all the time in the world to drown in me. And maybe he did—maybe, for this moment, time didn’t exist.
I sighed into his mouth, wrapping my arms around him, pressing myself closer, needing more. He groaned in response, his hands gripping my hips, holding me like he couldn’t bear to let go.
“Fiorella,” he rasped against my lips, his breath uneven, his control slipping. “I want to worship you. Let me.”
I swallowed hard, nodding. “Then don’t stop.”
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips, and the way he looked at me then—like I was the only thing in existence.
—————-
The air in the room was thick with warmth, the scent of him—woodsy, masculine, intoxicating—clinging to my skin. My body still pulsed with the pleasure of everything we had just shared, but more than that, there was a quiet hum beneath my ribs, a warmth that had nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with him.
Rocco.
I felt weightless in his arms, my head resting on his chest, his steady heartbeat beneath my ear grounding me in a way nothing else ever had. It was strange, the way I fit against him so effortlessly, as if my body had known all along that this was where I belonged.
His hand moved lazily over my back, tracing soft circles, his touch so different from the way he’d held me minutes ago. Then, he had been all fire and hunger. Now, he was gentleness. Warmth.
He exhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek, and I knew, without him saying a word, that he was just as lost in this moment as I was.
I tilted my head slightly, letting my fingers drift along his arm, over the ink that marked his skin. “You’re quiet,” I murmured.
His fingers stilled for a second before resuming their slow, soothing path along my back. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
A beat of silence. Then—“You.”
The way he said it, so easily, so completely, made my stomach tighten. I lifted my head, propping myself up on my elbow to look at him. His face was relaxed, his dark hair mussed, his lips slightly swollen from our kisses. But his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were softer now, as if the walls he always carried had finally lowered, if only for me.
“You make me think about things I never did before, Fiorella.” His voice was low, rough around the edges.
I swallowed, my fingers brushing along his jaw. “Good things or bad things?”
His lips curved slightly. “Both.”
My chest tightened. I knew what he meant. I made him think about the things he wanted but never thought he could have. I made him question the weight of this world we belonged to, the choices that had already been made for us.
Just like he did to me.
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just laid my head back down, letting the warmth of his skin lull me into something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Safety.
It was dangerous, the way I felt with him. Because safety was an illusion in our world. And yet, right here, wrapped in his arms, I wanted to believe it was real.
His fingers brushed through my hair, slow, almost absentmindedly. “You should rest,” he murmured. “You’ve had a long day.”
I hummed in agreement but made no move to leave his arms. Instead, I shifted, tangling my legs with his beneath the sheets, my fingers tracing random patterns against his chest.
“I don’t want to move,” I admitted.
His hand tightened against my waist, just slightly. “Then don’t.”
Silence stretched between us, comfortable, heavy with something unspoken.
And then, without thinking, I whispered, “Stay with me tonight.”
I felt his body tense for a fraction of a second before he relaxed again. His fingers trailed down my spine, his lips pressing against the top of my head.
“I’m not going anywhere, Fiorella.”
The warmth of his body wrapped around me like a cocoon, his strong arms holding me close as if I belonged here, as if this was the only place I was meant to be. My head rested on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breath, and for the first time in what felt like forever, my world felt still.
I let out a soft sigh, pressing my fingers against his skin, feeling the heat beneath my touch, the way his heartbeat thrummed steadily against my palm. It was calming in a way I hadn’t expected.
Rocco.
I had known from the beginning that he was dangerous. That letting him in was playing with fire. But right now, wrapped in his arms, my body still humming from the way he had made love to me, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
No man had ever touched me like that. Worshipped me like that.
Like I was something to be cherished, not just possessed.
I shifted slightly, letting my leg drape over his, my fingers idly tracing the lines of ink on his arm. He smelled like wood smoke and something distinctly him, something intoxicating. I wanted to drown in it, to press my face against his skin and breathe him in until the rest of the world faded away.
I had never wanted to freeze time before. Never wanted to stay in one moment so desperately. But right now, in this bed, in his arms, I did.
If I could just stay here, if I could hold onto this feeling a little longer, maybe I could pretend—for just a little while—that the outside world didn’t exist. That there were no enemies, no betrayals, no blood waiting to be spilled.
Just him and me.
I tilted my head up slightly, looking at his face in the dim light. His jaw was relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his dark lashes resting against his cheekbones. He looked almost peaceful.
I knew better.
Even in sleep, Rocco was a man always on guard, always prepared for whatever war came knocking at his door. But right now, he looked like he belonged here, in this moment with me.
I reached up without thinking, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. My fingers lingered, tracing the sharp lines of his face, the rough stubble along his jaw.
I had never been the kind of woman who needed someone. Who longed for this kind of closeness.
But Rocco had changed that.
He made me crave things I had never allowed myself to want. Safety. Affection. Something real.
His breath shifted, a low, tired hum vibrating against my fingertips.
“Fiorella,” he murmured, his voice deep, raspy with sleep. His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer.
I swallowed, my heart tightening in my chest. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” His eyes cracked open slightly, hazy with sleep, but still sharp. Always sharp. “You’re thinking too much.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “And how would you know that?”
His fingers skimmed over my hip, slow, lazy. “Because I know you.”
Three words. Simple. But they unraveled something inside me.
I ducked my head, pressing my face against his chest, hiding the way my expression softened.
Because as dangerous as it was, as much as I knew I shouldn’t, I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to believe that Rocco De Luca knew me—really knew me.
And that he wasn’t planning on letting me go.
“You should sleep baby,” he said pulling me closer and kissing my forehead as I sighed in contentment.
I liked the sound of that, baby. His baby.