Page 31 of Savage Union (Rosso Mafia #1)

Vito

She shivers—whether from fear or need, I don’t know.

But when her hips lift and her fingers tighten around my wrist, guiding me deeper, I know one thing for sure:

She’s not running.

And neither am I.

"Look at me," I say again, waiting until she complies before continuing. "Are you alright?"

The question seems to surprise her. She considers it for a moment, then nods slowly. "Yes. Just... give me a minute."

I stroke her hair, her face, murmuring reassurances in Italian—words I've never spoken to a lover before. Gradually, I feel her body relax, the tension easing as discomfort gives way to something else.

"Better?" I ask when her breathing steadies.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Her hands, which had been clenched in white-knuckled fists beside her, lift hesitantly—fingertips brushing my shoulders, then settling there with a quiet kind of trust that shatters me.

“You can… you can move now.”

Christ.

I ease into her with slow, deliberate rolls of my hips, like I’m trying to memorize the feel of her from the inside out. Every inch is a stretch, every breath a battle not to lose control. She’s tight— too tight—and I fight the instinct to claim, to take .

Not yet.

This isn’t about that.

This is about her.

Her breath hitches with each careful thrust, but I watch her face the whole time—watch the way pain gives way to heat, to hunger, to something she never expected to feel so soon.

Her lips part in surprise as her body adjusts, begins to move with mine, the rhythm of us slow and aching, like we’re building something sacred from broken pieces.

“Vito…” she gasps, nails biting into my shoulders as she clings to me. “I can’t—I don’t?—”

“You can,” I whisper, forehead pressed to hers. “You will . Just let go, bambola . I’ve got you.”

The words crack something open between us.

Her body clenches around me, her breath faltering, and then— then —she starts to fall.

Not in shame. Not in fear.

But in pleasure .

And it’s fucking beautiful .

I keep my pace steady, adjusting the angle, grinding deeper until I find the spot that makes her cry out, her legs locking around my waist, her hands trembling as they move to cup the back of my neck like she needs me closer, deeper , more .

She’s moaning now—soft, breathless sounds that hitch and stutter each time I thrust into her.

Her body starts to quake. Her voice breaks.

“I—I think?—”

“You’re close,” I murmur against her jaw. “Let it happen.”

She comes apart with a cry she tries to muffle against my throat, but I don’t let her hide. I want it. Her legs tighten, her walls flutter around me, her whole body trembling as she unravels beneath me.

And I lose it.

I thrust once, twice, and then I’m gone—buried deep inside her as I spill everything I am into the only woman who’s ever undone me with a single broken please .

It’s not just release. It’s claiming . It’s consecration .

She’s the first.

And fuck me, she might be the only .

I don’t pull away.

I press kisses to her shoulder, her jaw, the corner of her mouth as she catches her breath, as her lashes flutter closed and her fingers soften in my hair like she never wants to let go.

And for the first time in a long, violent life…

I don’t want her to.

She’s still pulsing around me, body twitching in aftershocks, the echo of her orgasm rippling through her like a wave that doesn’t know how to stop crashing. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, locking me in. Her breath is warm against my throat. Her nails drag weakly down my back.

And I’m still inside her.

Still hard.

Still holding back.

Barely.

She blinks up at me, dazed and flushed, like she doesn’t know where she is—only that it feels right .

And I need to ruin that feeling.

I pull out just enough to thrust back in, slow and deep, dragging a ragged groan from my own throat.

“Vito,” she whispers, her voice raw. “You haven’t…”

“No,” I rasp, thrusting again—deeper this time, more sure. “Not yet.”

Because I needed her to come first. Needed to give her that.

But now?

Now I take .

Her nails press into my back again, this time harder, and I can feel her body responding—already sensitive, already trembling.

“Too much?” I ask, voice like gravel as I drive into her with more force now, not brutal, but hungry .

She shakes her head, lashes fluttering. “Don’t stop.”

Fuck.

My control snaps.

I grip her hips, tilting her just right, and start to move in earnest—hips rolling with slow, devastating purpose, hitting every spot that makes her gasp and cling to me like she’s drowning. The table creaks beneath us, her thighs shaking against my ribs.

Every sound she makes feeds something dark inside me. Every whimper, every moan, every broken syllable of my name.

“You feel that?” I growl, slamming in to the hilt. “That’s mine now.”

She nods, dazed. “Yours,” she breathes.

And that’s it.

I lose it.

My rhythm falters, body locking tight, muscles straining as the pressure explodes inside me like a grenade. I bury myself in her, as deep as I can go, groaning her name like it’s a fucking prayer as I come—hot and endless, thick ropes spilling into her, marking her from the inside out.

She feels every pulse of it. I know she does. Her eyes flutter, her lips parting in a soundless gasp as her hips shift like her body is trying to keep it, keep me , like her body already knows what her mind hasn’t accepted yet.

That she’s mine now.

When it’s over, I collapse against her, both of us drenched in sweat, still locked together. Her heartbeat thunders against my chest. My breath is ragged in her ear. My hands don’t know where to rest—her hips, her throat, her fucking heart.

I nuzzle into the crook of her neck, voice low, dangerous.

“No one else,” I whisper, still buried deep. “Ever. Say it.”

She exhales shakily, arms winding around my back.

“No one else,” she whispers. “Just you.”

And just like that?—

I’m ruined.

In the aftermath, I hold her close, her head resting on my chest as our breathing gradually slows.

I know we should move—the dining table is hardly comfortable, and Antonia will return eventually to clear the meal neither of us touched.

But I'm reluctant to break this moment of peace, this temporary truce in the war between us.

"Are you alright?" I ask again, stroking her hair.

She nods against my chest. "I think so."

"You should have told me."

"Would it have changed anything?" she asks, and I hear the genuine question beneath the defiance.

"Yes," I answer honestly. "Not the outcome, perhaps, but the path to it."

She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. "I didn't plan this. Any of it."

"Nor did I." The admission comes easily in this moment of unusual vulnerability. "You have a talent for disrupting my carefully laid plans, Caterina Gallo."

A small smile touches her lips. "Good."

I laugh softly, surprising both of us. "Still defiant, even now."

"Always." She raises her head to meet my gaze, something unreadable in her eyes. "This doesn't change anything, you know. Between us."

But we both know it's a lie. Everything has changed, irrevocably. The knowledge hangs between us, unacknowledged but undeniable.

"Of course not," I agree, playing along with the fiction. "Just a moment of mutual madness."

"Exactly." She sits up, wincing slightly at the movement. "Nothing more."

I help her down from the table, steadying her when her legs prove unsteady. The sight of her—hair tousled, skin marked by my mouth, wearing nothing but the flush of recent pleasure—stirs something possessive in me again.

"Nothing more," I echo, though we both hear the lie in it. "Except perhaps a reminder."

"Of what?" She begins gathering her scattered clothing, avoiding my gaze.

"That some fires can't be extinguished." I reach down, picking up the silver bracelet from where it fell. "No matter how hard you try."

I hold it out to her, an offering rather than a demand.