Page 62 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Sixty-One

Isabella

L uca settles beside me, the warmth of his body pulling me in like gravity. I can’t do anything but give in to the pull.

His arm slides beneath my neck, and he tugs me closer until my cheek rests against the solid wall of his chest. His heat radiates through my skin. Every inch of me prickles with awareness, my muscles softening against the steady rise and fall of his breath.

But there’s nothing soft about the ache building low in my belly. Nothing gentle about the way my body reacts to the scent of his skin, the strength of his hold, the knowledge that if I shifted just an inch, I’d feel him fully against me.

Still, I try to play it cool. “What, no sleeping on your bed of blankets at my feet tonight?”

“Nah,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of my head. “Turns out I sleep better when I’m touching you.”

The flutter in my chest isn’t subtle this time. It takes full flight.

But I manage a smirk. “How would you know? We’ve never spent a whole night sleeping in the same bed together.”

Back when we were engaged, we only ever had fragments. Expected to wait until we were married, we only ever had fleeting hours snatched between shadows and behind locked doors.

The risk of being caught always loomed. We dreamed of the day we could fall asleep and wake in each other’s arms.

He exhales softly, his voice dipping. “Your first night here, I held you until dawn.”

He did. Though I thought he was Sebastian.

The memory of that night crawls into my mind like a stain and leaves a sour taste. I push it away, burying it in the furthest recesses of my mind. It’s not something I want shaping this moment.

I lift my head off his chest and look down at my name over his heart and the butterfly next to it. The sight undoes me in a way no touch ever could.

He loves me. He really, really does.

Reaching out, I trail my fingers down his torso, tracing the outline of the butterfly marking our first year apart.

The ink is smooth beneath my touch, his skin burning hot beneath it, and when his abs tighten in instinctive response, the ache inside me deepens.

My nipples brush against his chest as I lean in closer, a spark rippling through my body. A sweet jolt of pleasure shoots straight through my core, and I have to bite down on my lip to stop the sound that wants to escape.

I press my lips to the butterfly. A kiss laced with more meaning than I know how to say out loud.

Following the line of his muscles, I kiss each mark of our time apart, tracing it with my tongue as I go.

My hand drifts up, my fingers following the curve of his shoulder. There’s another butterfly.

Perched on the outside of his biceps, its wings are half-open, as if it’s resting mid-thought. Elegant and quiet, but solid. Like it’s guarding him… us.

“We only got up to butterfly number three in your office this morning,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips over the inked lines. “Which one was next? ”

His voice is rough as his gaze follows my hand. “That one is year four.”

I shift to bring my chest against his side. The friction makes me shiver, pleasure spreading through my limbs.

Luca’s breath catches, just once, but his jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold himself together.

I want him to lose control. I want to see what happens when he finally stops waiting.

So I lick and kiss the fourth butterfly, too.

His arm tightens around me, and the subtle flex of his muscle and the low sound in his throat vibrate through his chest and straight into mine.

“And the last butterfly? The one from this year?”

Clearly, I can work out which one it is. There’s only one left, centered below his collarbones, where his chest rises and falls with every restrained breath.

But I want to hear it, need him claiming our love aloud.

He doesn’t answer, though. He just points to it, as if willing me to understand the marks on his body are words enough.

“This butterfly is different… lighter, almost in motion, as if it’s lifting off.” My fingers brush the delicate wings, their tips fading to white, a gradient of devotion made visible.

“This isn’t about pain anymore,” I say softly, studying the ink. “It’s about the part of you that never let go.”

He covers my fingers with his in the lightest of touches, his breath ghosting over my skin.

“It’s the part of me that loves you so completely that it outgrew the grief of being apart and just… rose.”

I nod, my throat too tight for words, my voice no more than a whisper.

“There’s hope in this butterfly.” I lower my mouth to it, pressing my lips against the ink.

His exhale shudders out, heavy with restraint. I can feel the effort it takes him not to pull me fully beneath him, to show me the depth of his love with his body.

“It’s more than hope. It’s determination. I decided on your birthday there wouldn’t be another one without me by your side, that this year you’d be mine again. No matter what.”

His hand slides along my waist, settling at the base of my spine, where his thumb draws a slow, possessive arc. My heart stutters in my chest, his words lodging deep.

“You’re running out of room,” I whisper, the words a flimsy shield against the rush of emotions breaking loose inside me.

A flicker of a smile plays on his lips. “Now that I have you back… I won’t need to add more butterflies.”

I lift my gaze to meet his, my heart pounding hard enough I’m sure he feels it.

“Besides, I still have my entire back.”

He leans in until the warmth of his breath ghosts across my lips.

“I’m saving that space for our kids.”

Everything inside me stills. Not with fear or uncertainty.

But with love so consuming, it breaks me open.

Our kids, our future, a life together.

I surge up before I can think, straddling him in one fluid motion, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. My hands cradle his face, palms cupping the heat of his cheeks, thumbs brushing the sharp lines of his jaw.

His eyes lock on mine. Wide. Shining. His chest rises too fast, like he can’t keep up with his breath.

His hands find my hips. Tight. Unmoving. Like he’s anchoring himself. Or maybe bracing.

I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. Everything I am is already in my touch.

His gaze drops to my mouth like it hurts to look, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He watches me like he’s afraid to move, like I might vanish if he blinks.

And then I kiss him.

Hard .

Not soft and searching, but like I need his mouth to quiet the chaos he’s ignited inside me.

He groans into the kiss, his hands fly to my waist, pulling me down harder against him. His lips move with mine, hot and open and desperate, no restraint, no control, just years of longing unleashed in a flood.

I thread my fingers through his hair and pull gently, angling his mouth beneath mine. I deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue against his with a hunger that borders on reckless. He moans, the sound going straight through me, pure fire, and I chase it with another kiss, wetter this time, messier.

Our mouths clash and slide, breathless, ravenous. My hips roll against him, seeking friction, and when his hard cock is beneath me, a needy moan tears from my throat.

And he’s as gone as I am.

His hands move, one pressing to the small of my back, the other sliding up my spine, steadying, guiding, grounding. But nothing about this is grounded.

I’m in freefall. And I don’t want to stop.