Page 13

She nods once, firm. “In the short term, yeah, it’s riskier.

But these routes here—” she taps again, her nail clicking against the laminated map, “—these jungle routes will flood when the monsoon hits. Those roads will turn into rivers of mud. But the desert routes stay clear all year. Dry. Predictable. You could move heavier shipments without worrying about washed-out crossings.”

I study her for a moment, surprised by her clarity. “You own that sector too,” I murmur. “Your father acquired that land years ago, but we never utilized it.”

“Then approve it,” she says, locking eyes with me. “You’ll have my signature.”

For a second, neither of us moves, the air between us thick with silent understanding. This is her world now, whether she remembers it fully or not.

I nod. “Done.”

I pull the final form from the stack, setting it before her with the pen. The gold tip catches the lamplight as I hand it to her.

Her hand hovers for a brief moment. Then, with one fluid motion, she signs.

She smooths the hem of that oversized shirt draping over her thighs like a casual afterthought. Barefoot. Loose strands of hair fall across her face, catching the glow of the desk lamp.

She turns toward the door without meeting my eyes. “If I’m done here, I should get to bed. It’s quite late.”

Her voice is calm, but something under it wavers. A note I don’t miss.

I step forward, closing the gap between us. She reaches for the door handle, but I plant my hand flat against the wood beside her head, blocking her path.

The distance between us shrinks. My voice lowers. “Why are you nervous?” I ask quietly.

She turns her face up toward me, her breath steady but shallow.

Her hands rise, fingers splaying across my chest, palms light against the fabric of my shirt.

She traces the line of my sternum like she’s studying me, but her gaze drifts lower.

I feel the pressure building in my lower abdomen as her eyes settle where I know she’s looking.

A smile curls across her lips. Soft at first, then sharper, like she enjoys this power shift.

“Hubby, listen.” Her tone sweetens, coated in amusement. Her fingers begin to move in small circles on my chest. “The old me…she gave herself to you, didn’t she? She must’ve wanted to please you so badly. Did anything you asked.”

Her nails drag lightly against the cotton as she gently pushes me back a step. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

“That’s not me.” Her voice drops to a husky whisper. “You’ll have to beg to have me. Do you understand?”

The pulse in my neck kicks. My jaw tightens.

She turns back to the door, curling her fingers around the knob.

But I move. My arm hooks around her waist and pulls her back to me. She fits perfectly against my chest, her warmth pressing into me.

My lips hover close to her ear. “Please,” I breathe. “Please, can I have you?”

Her body stills. The smallest tremor ripples through her before she smiles again.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

I don’t know why I’m begging. God, I never thought I would.

But I miss her.

I miss her and I want her.

I want her like a man starving. Like a man drowning.

She stands in front of me now, her gaze sharp, unwavering.

She’s different—stronger, colder, but still so achingly beautiful that it almost breaks me to look at her.

She lifts her hand and tilts my chin downward, forcing my eyes to meet hers at her level.

I swallow hard, my pulse thudding heavily in my throat.

“You haven’t begged before, have you?” Her voice is low, smooth, but carries that edge—like a knife pressing against my skin. “Beg me like the old me begged you to love her.”

Her words punch the air from my lungs.

And for a moment, I’m back there.

Back to the old Fioretta standing in front of me, her eyes brimming with tears, her lip trembling as she whispered through the pain:

“It’ll never be me, will it?”

The memory guts me. I can feel the echo of it in my chest like a bruise that never healed.

I blink, pulling myself back into the present. And she’s waiting. Watching.

I can’t not give her what she asks for.

I can’t not fall to my knees for her.

“Please,” I rasp. My voice is unsteady, thick with something I don’t even recognize anymore.

“Please.”

She smiles—not cruelly, but with the satisfaction of someone reclaiming power that was once stripped from them. Her fingers trail down my jaw for just a second, and then she turns, walking toward the couch.

My breath catches as she sits, calm. She slides her panties down her legs, inch by agonizing inch, letting them fall to the floor as if she has all the time in the world. My cock throbs painfully as I watch her part her legs, exposing herself to me.

She locks eyes with me. “Come over.”

God help me, my body moves before my mind can catch up.

I crawl—actually crawl—to her, my hands sinking into the carpet as my mouth waters for her.

For the chance to taste her, to worship her, to lose myself in the one person I once pushed away.

She watches me with those dark, knowing eyes, and I know:

I belong to her now.

And maybe I always did

Every inch of me aches for her, pulled forward by something primal, unstoppable. My hands find her knees, warm and smooth beneath my palms, and I part her legs wider. She yields easily, inviting me in, revealing herself completely.

The moment she opens for me, her scent hits me full force.

Sweet. Earthy. Rich. A deep, intoxicating musk laced with something sharp and heady, like the most decadent honey.

My pulse quickens, and my mouth waters instinctively.

My cock twitches painfully against the tight confines of my pants, but this isn’t about me. Not yet.

I inhale her like oxygen, filling my lungs with her arousal, dizzy from how wet she already is. She’s glistening, folds slick and swollen with need, her entrance gleaming with the evidence of how badly she wants this. Wants me.

I lower my mouth to her heat, so close my lips almost brush her, and I feel the tremor ripple through her thighs.

“F-fuck…” she breathes, her voice already shaking.

I flick my tongue out, the first delicate contact making her jerk beneath me. I don’t rush. I taste her like I’m savoring a rare delicacy, letting her arousal spread across my tongue. Salty and sweet, metallic and floral. Addictive. I moan softly against her flesh, unable to stop myself.

“Oh, God,” she gasps, gripping the back of my head, her fingers instantly tightening in my hair like she’s anchoring herself against the overwhelming sensation.

My lips part as I flatten my tongue against her, dragging it upward in one long stroke, teasing her swollen clit before dipping back down to her entrance.

I circle her opening with firm laps, gathering her slickness and drawing it up toward her aching bud.

Her thighs tense around my head, and she lets out a breathy moan, her hips already starting to roll against my mouth.

“You taste so fucking good,” I growl softly into her, the vibrations making her whimper.

Her hips buck, chasing every flick of my tongue. I press a little harder now, flicking and swirling her clit, tasting the way her body responds to me, watching her fall apart, inch by inch.

Her voice becomes a melody of broken sounds, high and breathless. “Ohh…yes…yes…don’t stop…don’t stop, oh, my God.”

I slide my hands up her thighs, gripping her firmly to keep her open for me.

My fingers drift to her slick entrance, and I slide two fingers inside, feeling her walls clench around me like a vise.

She’s so tight and warm, silky wet heat wrapping around my knuckles as I pump in and out, curling my fingers upward to find that perfect spot inside her.

She throws her head back, eyes squeezed shut, her voice cracking with pleasure. “Ah—right there! Oh, God, right fucking there!”

Her cries are pure desperation now. Her nails dig into my scalp, tugging my hair almost painfully, but I don’t care. I want to drown in her, lose myself in the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her pussy clenching around my fingers.

The wet sounds of my tongue and fingers working her fill the air, obscene, raw, and I swear I can feel her getting wetter with every cry that leaves her mouth. My tongue circles her clit faster now, flicking, sucking, dragging across her sensitive nub with practiced precision.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, please—” she whimpers, her voice thin and high, desperate. “I’m—I’m gonna come; I can’t—don’t stop—please—oh, God—”

I growl into her folds, my fingers pumping harder as I suck her clit into my mouth, letting my lips seal around it, tongue flicking furiously. She arches off the couch, thighs squeezing around my face, her entire body going stiff and tight.

Then she shatters.

Her orgasm crashes over her like a wave, slamming into her so hard she screams my name, her thighs trembling violently around my head, her cunt pulsing rhythmically around my fingers.

“Ahhh—fuck—yes—oh, my God!” she cries, her voice raw, choked with pleasure. Her entire body spasms beneath my hands, slick gushing against my fingers, coating my lips, my chin, soaking my face in her release.

I don’t stop. I keep lapping her up, drinking her in, sucking and flicking her clit as she rides out every pulse, every ripple of pleasure until her body finally goes limp beneath me.

Her breath comes in broken, ragged sobs, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hand stays tangled in my hair, as though she can’t quite let go of me yet.

I pull back slightly, my face wet and glistening with her. Her slickness coats my lips, my beard, my tongue still savoring the lingering taste of her as I breathe heavily, staring up at her wrecked, beautiful face.

She looks down at me, flushed, panting, her eyes dazed with aftershocks of bliss.

“God…” she whispers, voice trembling. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect.”

I swallow thickly, my chest pounding, and I know:

I would stay between her thighs forever if she let me.

She lies there for a moment, her breath returning, her chest rising and falling as little tremors still ripple through her legs. My face is still slick with her, my lips tingling, my jaw tight from how long I devoured her—but I don't care.

Then her eyes open. She looks at me with that quiet, dangerous satisfaction—soft and dominant all at once.

The kind of look that makes my pulse spike.

She sits up slowly, watching me, her body glowing with the afterglow of her orgasm, her skin flushed and dewy.

She reaches down, casually plucking her panties off the floor.

For a moment, I think she’s going to slip them back on. But she doesn’t. Instead, she walks over to me, towering above me as I remain kneeling at her feet. She dangles her panties in front of me like a reward.

“You were a good boy,” she murmurs. Her voice is a sweet razor blade—soft but cutting, laced with power.

She places the damp fabric in my open hand, the warmth of her release still clinging to it. Then she turns and walks away, hips swaying, leaving me kneeling there like the desperate, hungry man I am.

The second she’s gone, I stare at the panties.

They’re still warm. Still soaked in her scent.

The fabric is thin and lacy, the crotch darkened with her wetness, the smell hitting me instantly—rich, musky, sharp, intoxicating.

It’s like she’s still here, hovering over me.

My mouth waters again, my cock already rock-hard, throbbing painfully against my jeans.

I can’t help myself.

My breath is heavy as I stand, unbuttoning my pants quickly. The zipper drags down with a soft rasp, and my cock springs free, flushed and swollen, desperate for attention.

I fist my length instantly, the head slick with pre-cum. My hand wraps around my shaft, stroking at first, and I bring the panties to my face, inhaling deeply. Her scent floods my senses, overwhelming, raw, and intimate.

I groan, unable to hold it in. My hand moves faster, stroking firmly as my other hand clutches the panties tighter, pressing them against my face.

“Fuck…” I whisper, my voice trembling with lust. “God, you smell so fucking good.”

The slippery silk of the fabric rubs against my lips as I breathe her in, tongue flicking out to taste the faint saltiness left behind. My mind flashes back to the way she moaned under my mouth, the way her thighs had trembled, the helpless cries she spilled into the room as she came for me.

My cock twitches in my fist at the memory, and I stroke harder, faster now. The wet squelch of my own arousal mixes with my panting breath.

I close my eyes. I see her again—her body spread open, flushed and shaking, her eyes glazed with pleasure as she whimpers my name. The image pushes me closer, my strokes growing more frantic, my muscles tightening as my orgasm builds.

“Oh, fuck…” I groan, breath ragged. “Fuck…I’m gonna—”

With one last desperate gasp, I explode, my release pulsing thick and hot over my hand and stomach, the spasms shaking through my whole body as I pant into her panties, still pressed against my face.

I ride out every last wave, my hand slowing, my knees nearly buckling beneath me. My skin prickles with heat, my chest heaving, my senses still drowning in the smell and taste of her.

Even now, spent and breathless, I don’t pull the fabric away from my face.

I just stay there, breathing her in. Needing more.

Always needing more.