Still his hands didn’t move. A groan left him as I lifted off.
“Kiss me,” I whispered. “Kiss me like it’s the last.”
His arms finally moved, and his fingers gently cupped my face as he drew me closer. “Never the last.”
Plush lips pressed to mine. Then our lips parted. Each swipe of his tongue against mine drove me to ride him harder, faster. I dug my nails into his chest before wrapping my hands around his neck, holding him close.
His stubble was rough against my skin, lips burning as he moved up my neck, tongue soothing. “This is what I’ve been fucking dreaming of.”
“What?”
“You wanting me.”
“Domenico,” I whimpered. My legs began to shake, and he understood.
He gripped my waist, pushing and pulling me along his length to meet his thrusts.
“Make me come,” I said against his lips.
He changed the angle slightly and began drilling up into me. My mouth opened in a silent scream as every muscle froze—a stuttered breath, a tightening grip, then his teeth digging into my neck.
I snapped and began rocking in his grip, a keening sound ripping out of my chest. My pussy pulsed around him, and a low groan vibrated against my skin. His hips thrusted up as his hands slammed my hips down, his muscles jumping with each twitch of his cock.
After cleaning up, I fell asleep draped over Domenico, feeling oddly safe for the first time in weeks.
Feeling cared about for the first time in years.
The next day I was feeling better. While not the healthiest, pizza was definitely higher in nutrition than my sandwiches. By noon I had managed to eat three slices. I also drank and drank and drank. Dehydration was part of my issues, it turned out.
The more food and water I was able to get in me, the better.
Domenico was different. Still dominant and grating, but now his touch set me on fire. I knew more, understood why.
He was not a sadist. He was my savior.
“He told me to do whatever it took to keep you safe.”
Whatever to keep me safe included how he had to hurt me, because the alternative was far worse.
“How long are we going to be here?” I asked, nibbling on the crust of the last piece I’d gotten down. Even full, I felt a surge of energy that I hadn’t felt in weeks.
His lips formed a thin line. “I’m still working out a plan.”
“You planned out the whole escape, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “But there wasn’t time to plan past this point. There are those loyal to me who informed me of a plot to kill me, and there were only a few hours’ notice.”
I stared at him. “Kill you?” It was unfathomable. I’d seen firsthand the way those men worshipped him.
“Marco sent everyone out right before a shift change, then went to dinner.”
“Did you tell him…you did all that to take me with you? Why didn’t you just leave? Form some other plan.”
His gaze bored into mine. “I couldn’t leave you to be taken by Roman.”
“Why?” My constant question. Why would he risk so much for me?
Domenico’s phone went off, and I jumped at the sudden sound. His jaw clenched as he glanced at it.
“Can’t they trace us with that?” I asked, my eyes wide as I looked toward the door.
He shook his head. “Not mine.”
He pressed his finger to his screen, and a voice floated through the speakers. “You know what this means. Return with the girl and you won’t be killed.”
My brow scrunched. “Know what this means?” He turned the screen toward me. The man speaking wasn’t in the frame. Instead there was a single red rose sitting in a black vase. “I don’t understand.”
Domenico stopped the video. “If I don’t return by the time he takes the last petal out, he’ll kill me.”
The last petal… “You already knew that would happen when you freed me.”
He shook his head. “This is to show me there is leniency. That death is not the end if I return you.”
“What would happen to you?” I asked. Concern crawled in, and I began to feel on edge. Would he return me if there was a chance he could go back to his life?
“Sometimes death is better.”
The significance wasn’t lost on me. The rose, just like mine. “How long until all the petals are gone?”
“At least three weeks. He’ll pull one petal a day.”
Memories of Domenico gently plucking the rose each day ran through my mind. It wasn’t without purpose. “Just like you did,” I whispered.
Did that mean I’d been days away from being killed? That thought didn’t sit right with me, and I knew I was going to have to come clean.
He nodded. “Your petals were running out.”
“And then you were going to kill me?” I asked.
He took my face in his hands. “I will never do that to you. You’re mine, and I will do anything to keep you alive.”
“And if you didn’t want me?” I asked, my breath hitching. The conviction in which he said I was his made my chest clench. There was more than just ownership, something deeper that stirred.
“Then you would have been sold off as a sex slave to the highest bidder or given to the men.”
The reality was staggering, and I would have faltered, using my one lifeline.
“What do we do? We can’t just stay in this motel forever.” Was there anywhere to go? He said my father wanted him to keep me safe, but going back to him still seemed to fall under crawling back to him, under his rule in exchange for sanctuary.
“Roman is coming for us.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
He was looking off in the distance, not focused on anything in particular. “Besides the plan he already made, I gave him the perfect excuse to kill me.”
“Why?”
His eyes locked on mine. “He wants to finish what he never could get close to doing, and he’ll use you.”
Finish? My brow scrunched before it hit me.
“He did this, didn’t he?” My finger lightly traced the large scar on his face. I could only imagine the pain he’d been in. From his scalp to the corner of his mouth, then swooping up across his cheek, barely missing his eye, and through his brow, stopping halfway up his forehead.
“What happened?”
His gaze met mine, and he took a moment to answer. “I told you, don’t trust Roman.”
“Why would you trust him?” I asked. I wanted more. I was craving more of Domenico, of the man he was.
He shook his head. “I never did. I grew up with Roman. From the time he could walk, he looked down at me. As we grew, he would do things like punch me and then go crying to his mother that I hit him. He was a devious little shit that got whatever he wanted.”
“Were you punished?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not often. My mother believed him the first time, but after she caught him punching one of the maids because she put him in the wrong sweater, she knew. He was a tiny tyrant. After that, my mother would pretend that she was going to take me to be reprimanded, and instead she iced where he hit me, gave me a kiss, and made me cookies.”
“Why didn’t she do anything?” I asked. Placating him after the fact did nothing to stop the treatment. It was a loving gesture but didn’t stop the aggressor.