Page 68 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Ant’s head falls back, neck cords taut, lost in the feel of me. I move my hands from his legs and shift forward, running my hands up his chest.

I still myself, savoring how deep he is.

Rubbing my thumb over the tattoo on his left pec, I can feel his heart racing beneath all that muscle.

Ant rubs circles into my thighs. “Do you need to stop? Take a break?”

I lick my lips and shake my head slowly. “No. I just like feeling you this deep.”

Then I rise, grab the base of his dick to steady it, and spin around to face the opposite direction. And I sink all the way back down.

Ant gasps. “Jesus.”

He grips my hips, and as I lean back for the angle, he drives up into me.

His feet plant flat on the bed, hips lifted and pumping into me with such force I have to grip the bedding to steady myself.

He shifts—slotting the tops of his knees in the back of mine—and lifts his hips even higher, suspending me above him, skewered on his dick.

“Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?” I cry out, losing my mind. “You’re gonna make me come, baby.”

“Yeah?”

He drops his hips, pulls me down so my back’s flush against his chest, and buries his face in my neck again.

His arms band around my chest, holding me in place, then his thrusts quicken.

It’s fast, deep, and relentless.

“You’ll come when I say you can,” he whispers in my ear, then pounds into me harder.

“Whose hole is this?”

“Y-yours. It’s your hole,” I pant. “Ant—”

“Come.”

I do. With one stroke of my hand, I shoot, coating my abs with a guttural moan that rips out of me.

It’s nothing compared to the sound that tears from Ant’s throat when he comes inside me.

I brace on one arm, jerking the last of my release out, watching it spill over my knuckles.

I collapse on top of him, unable to move, limbs trembling.

When the aftershocks subside, Ant rolls us to our sides and pulls me into him, not giving a damn about the mess.

He’s still inside me, holding me full. Making sure I stay marked.

Eventually, he pulls out, kisses my shoulder and heads to the bathroom. I hear the water running for a bit.

I don’t move. I lie there in the position he left me, smiling like a blissed-out idiot.

An idiot that just got dicked-down.

Thoroughly fucked.

I’m still catching my breath when I feel the mattress shift beside me. Ant gently brushes the sweat-dampened hair back from my forehead with his hand.

Then he rolls me onto my back and cleans me—chest, abs, cock—before tossing the cloth into the hamper.

“Jesus,” he murmurs as he lays back down next to me, voice thick with satisfaction. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

I grin at him. “No. You can’t die. I still need that dick.”

Dinner smells like heaven.

I’m sitting at the dining table, elbows propped lazily, watching Ant.

God, I missed this.

This is one of my favorite things—watching him completely in the zone, singing to whatever ‘80s song is playing low from the speaker, sleeves pushed up, expression focused and content. It’s so him . So familiar.

And now it’s real. Again.

My heart feels heavy in my chest. Not from sadness—just… this overwhelming wave of everything . Gratitude. Relief. Love. The kind of love that anchors you, that holds you together at the seams.

There were nights in that cabin I wasn’t sure I’d ever get out. I didn’t think I’d get to have this again.

I think of Ma. I think about what she’d say if she could see us now. I think she’d cry. Then laugh. And then threaten me to never break his heart again. But she’d still be proud.

“Hey, babe?” Ant calls, slicing through my thoughts as easily as he’s slicing those cucumbers.

I blink, turning my gaze to him, and I smile automatically at the sound of it— babe . A simple word. A huge feeling.

“Yes, boyfriend?” I say, half-playful, half in awe that I get to say it.

He smiles and flicks his eyes toward the fridge. “Can you open a bottle of wine for dinner? Grab a white. I think I bought a Sauvignon Blanc. Should go well with the piccata.”

I nod and head to the kitchen. Grabbing two glasses from the cabinet, set them on the table before heading to the fridge for the wine.

I set the wine on the counter, walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face into the crook of his neck.

He leans into me immediately, humming softly, and sets the knife down.

Without a word, I tighten my grip and spin him around, lifting him slightly as I do.

“Hey!” he laughs, landing with a small stumble, arms crossed, suspicious and amused. “What are you doing?”

I say nothing—just spin back toward the counter, open the drawer under where he’d been working, and pull out the wine opener.

Turning back around, I hold it up with a flourish. “Needed the wine opener.”

His eyes narrow, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights a smile. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m a great piece of ass,” I correct, and kiss him before he can argue.

He melts against my lips, then pulls back, already reclaiming his kitchen.

“Go. Sit. It’ll be ready in a minute. Iknowyou’re starving.”

I step back, let my gaze roam slowly down his body and back up. “Famished,” I say, voice low and shameless.

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head with a grin as he turns back to his salad.

I take the hint and head to the table.

Ant sets the salad down first, then disappears back into the kitchen and returns a moment later with two steaming plates of chicken piccata over mashed potatoes.

He places one in front of me and gently slides the other into place before taking his seat.

Little G huffs from where he’s flopped at my feet, clearly annoyed he’s not been served too.

After setting the plate down, Ant runs a hand up my back, his fingers lingering at the base of my neck for a second longer than usual. His expression is soft—but something flickers behind his eyes. Something distant.

It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it.

But I’m not most people. I know him. I know the chasms of his mind he escapes into when his thoughts are too loud. And this… this is one of those times.

He slides into his chair, kitty-corner from mine, and unfolds his napkin into his lap. I reach down, grab the edge of his chair, and tug it closer until he’s nearly brushing my side. He huffs, but his lip twitches at the corner.

“Oh man,” I groan after my first bite of piccata. “We may have a new second favorite.”

Ant lifts an eyebrow at me, and I can see he’s trying to play it cool.

“Hey,” I add, pointing my fork at him. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s ever going to unseat your lasagna from the number one spot. That’s sacred.”

He offers me a small smile. It’s polite. Appreciative. But it’s not the usual light-up-the-room, proud chef grin he wears when I rave about his cooking. It lands soft. Muted.

I pick up my wine glass and take a slow sip, studying him over the rim. He cuts into his chicken, his fork moving on autopilot. Then he sighs. Deep. Heavy.

That does it.

I set my glass down, wipe my mouth, and lean closer.

“Okay,” I say, careful but direct. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

Ant’s head snaps up like I startled him. “What? What do you mean? There’s not—”

“Don’t even try, Pacini,” I cut in gently. “I know you.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at his plate and draws in a slow, shaky breath.

I reach across, hook a finger under his chin, and tilt his face toward mine.

“Is it the whole moving in thing?” I ask softly. “Is it too much?”

He grabs my hand in both of his and gives me a look like I’ve just said something unthinkable. “Jesus, no,” he says quickly. “This is exactly where I want to be.”

I exhale, tension slowly melting out of me.

Ant squeezes my hand again and says, firmer this time, “This is where I belong. This is it, baby. Us. Forever.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “It is.”

He lets go of my hand, and I shift mine to his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “And if it’s us, forever, you need to let me help carry the weight of your burdens.”

Ant sighs, leans back in his chair, and rubs his hands down his face.

Then he lowers his hands and looks at me, finally letting the weight spill into his voice.

“So,” he says, “I got a phone call today.”

I shift my chair so I’m fully facing him, resting one arm on the back and planting my feet firm on the floor. “What kind of phone call?”

Ant blows out a breath. “It was an attorney.”

That alone makes me sit up straighter, tension snapping down my spine. “Okay…”

He nods, hands folding and unfolding in his lap like they can’t decide what to do.

“The attorney—his firm—they’re representing a group of victims. Abuse survivors.

From Catholic priests in the Detroit diocese.

It spans decades. Multiple parishes.” He hesitates for half a breath, then adds, “Including the parish my Catholic school was in.”

I lean forward and place both hands on his thighs, grounding him, grounding me. I rub slow circles, hoping he feels the steady weight of me there.

“And they want you to join the case?”

He nods again, slower this time.

“What did you tell them?”

He looks at me, eyes swimming with emotion, but steady. “I told him I’m not ready to be involved in anything with this.”

I nod, my hands stilling on his legs just long enough for him to know I heard him. I rub again, firmer this time. “Okay.”

“I feel a little guilty,” he admits, voice quieter.

“But I’ve done so much work, Chance. Years of therapy.

Separating what they did to me from my own desires.

Practicing forgiveness. Forgiveness for what they did.

For my parents’ silence. Forgiveness I’ll never speak aloud to any of them, but…

” He swallows. “But forgiveness that’s mine. That I earned.”

A tear slips down his cheek, and I reach up gently to brush it away with my thumb, then tuck my hand around the side of his neck.