Page 135 of Fire and Silk

Her cry rips through the room, raw and beautiful, her pussy clamping down on me as her body convulses, thighs quaking, hips jerking back against me. Her release floods around my cock, slick and hot, and I can’t hold on. I slam into her one last time, my own release tearing through me, her name a broken groan on my lips as I spill inside her, deep and pulsing, my body shaking with the force of it.

We collapse forward against the vanity, her body pinned beneath mine, our breaths harsh and tangled, sweat-slick skin pressed together. Her fingers reach back, brushing my hip, and I press a kiss to the nape of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. But I’m not done—not yet.

I pull out slowly, her cunt still twitching around me, and she whimpers, oversensitive. I turn her gently, lifting her to sit on the edge of the vanity, her legs spreading instinctively as I step between them. Her eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but there’s a spark there, a hunger that mirrors mine. I lean in, kissing her softly, tasting the remnants of her moans on her lips.

My hands slide up her thighs, parting them wider, and I drop to my knees again. Her breath hitches as I press my mouth to her inner thigh, kissing my way up, slow and deliberate, until I reach her cunt—still wet, still swollen, glistening with our combined release. I groan, low and hungry, and drag my tongue through her folds, tasting us both, the mix of salt and heat making my cock twitch again.

She gasps, her hands flying to my hair, tugging as I lap at her, slow and thorough, savoring every shudder, every hitch in her breath. My tongue circles her clit, teasing, then flattens against it, and she arches, a broken moan spilling from her lips. I slide two fingers into her, curling them just right, and her hips buck, chasing the pressure as I fuck her with my fingers and suck her clit into my mouth.

Her moans grow louder, fracturing into desperate cries as I push her toward another edge. Her thighs tremble around my head, her nails digging into my scalp, and I don’t stop—flicking my tongue, curling my fingers, driving her higher until she’s sobbing, her body tensing, then breaking again. Her release crashes over her, her cunt spasming around my fingers, her criesechoing in the room as she collapses back against the mirror, breathless, trembling.

I rise, kissing my way up her body, lingering at the curve of her breast, the hollow of her throat, until I reach her lips. She pulls me in, kissing me deeply, tasting herself on my tongue, her hands framing my face like she’s anchoring herself to me.

I hold her tight as we both collapse forward against the vanity, our breaths harsh and tangled, our bodies spent and soaked and trembling from what we just did.

Epilogue – Lira

The Dantès Estate, The East Wing Ballroom

Two years.

The room is gold.

Not metaphorically. The walls are papered in it—soft matte sheen over silk panels, the moldings touched with real leaf. There are hundreds of candles in carved holders and chandeliers that throw warm light against lacquered floors. The men gathered here today—dons, judges, financiers, a few scattered royals—they sit beneath this glow like moths caught inside something beautiful and quietly dangerous.

I stand at the center, dressed in red.

The violin rests easily in my hands. The bow is angled just above the strings. The hush in the ballroom is complete. Even the guards along the walls have gone still. All that breathes is the music as it spills from my hands. High. Clear. Wounded.

I don’t close my eyes.

I let them watch.

Nicola sits closest, in the front row, her fingers clasped before her. She nods softly with every rise in the melody, her face a mask of calm, but I know pride when I see it. Beside her, Matteo leans back, legs spread, head tilted slightly as if surprised. As if this performance is some new face I’ve never shown.

But it’s the man in the middle—my husband—who hasn’t looked away .

He’s not blinking.

One hand is on the armrest. The other curled around the ring he gave me, the same one I never took off. His lips part the smallest bit as the note climbs, and when it breaks through into something delicate, he smiles.

Not a grin. Not a smirk.

Something soft. Devoted. Almost helpless.

I finish the piece.

The last note doesn’t linger. It dies cleanly, like it knows it’s the end.

For a breath, the room holds its silence.

Then the applause begins.

Not the usual kind—no polite tapping, no murmured praise. It’s loud. Real. Startling in its warmth. Some are even standing. Not many, but enough. I don’t bow. I simply lower the violin, step back, and drink them in.

They will never love me.

But they fear me. And respect has always followed fear.