Page 114 of Chicago Sin

But it feels right. Like she deserves these facts about me.

“Are you close to her?”

“I was before, yeah. She’s the best. She’d do anything for me, you know? My dad walked out when I was eight, so it was always just me and her.”

“And you got into the Outfit to help support her?” She slides her hands down my shoulders, massaging the muscles of my upper arms.

I wait a beat, knowing I shouldn’t discuss any of this shit with her. “Yeah,” I say finally. “Her sister is married to the don. So I was considered family, and the offer of a job was made to me. Me and Marco and Leo. They’re cousins on my mother’s side. We all came in together. They’re like brothers to me now–as you know.”

Hannah hums softly and continues kneading my muscles.

“Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“The massage? The questions?”

She’s quiet, and I figure it was a dick question, and she doesn’t want to answer. Then she says, “I just want to make you feel good. That’s what you do for me.”

She wants to make me feel good. Not with any goal in mind beyond that. Not even an orgasm. It’s not a transaction with her.

That knowledge does something to me. A fissure splits in the metal casing around my chest. Slowly, over a period of long minutes, I let go. I let her give to me in this way she wants to.

And then I roll over and stare up at her. She stares back, her oiled hands running over my pecs, down the fronts of my shoulders. And all the while, I stare right into her warm brown eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur.

It’s deeper than sex. Way deeper. This… this is fucking intimacy. And I must feel something. It’s nothing huge. Discomfort. A soft fuzzing. A fullness in my chest.

Connection.

That’s what I feel.

I’m locked on and locked into Hannah. I reach for her face and mold my hand around her cheek. I grasp her head and flip her to her back, swapping our positions. My urge is to go hot and heavy, like we always do, but I rein it in. Keep up the staring. The connection. I kiss her like it matters. Not like I’m gonna die if I don’t—which is how I usually feel when I’m touching her. This time, I go lighter. I listen to the space between us. Around us. In us. My lips slide over hers, and it’s sensual. Erotic but not lustful. My tongue slides in her mouth, our lips twist.

I’m hard again, and I can’t stand the thought of putting on a condom. It’s like I want no barriers between us in this moment.

I nudge her legs apart and push in. “I’ll pull out,” I promise. “I want to feel you. Is that okay?”

There’s so much trust in her gaze as she nods, eyes shining like I’m her whole world right now. I glide in and out of her slowly, not working on a rhythm, just relishing every single sensation. This must be love. If I could feel it—this must be what makes people believe they’re in love.

Presence.

I kiss her again, like it’s our first kiss. Like I’m the kind of guy who goes slow and shows a little finesse.

Eventually we do build to a crescendo, and I’m so locked into her gaze I almost forget to pull out and come on her belly.

And that seems wrong. Like I definitely should’ve come inside her. I rest on my forearms and keep staring down at her until those warm brown eyes fill with tears. She stares right back, letting them leak out the sides of her eyes and fall to the pillow beneath her, not hiding or shrinking.

Giving me those tears—offering them up to me.

If only I could figure out how to use them.

But it feels like I am. Like I’m closer.

Feels like something’s changing in me. Some trapped piece of humanity is finding its way out.

Every night with Hannah brings me closer.