Page 83 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

His fingers trace idle, sticky patterns on my skin.

"Don't move," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and raw.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, his lips soft against the bite mark he left there. "Not a muscle."

But he’s the one who moves.

After a few more minutes of silence, he pushes himself up, his body a silhouette against the blue light.

He finds his boxers and pulls them on, then pads, barefoot and naked from the waist up, into the adjoining kitchen.

I watch him go, my body feeling both wrecked and reborn, my limbs like lead.

I hear the click of the kettle, the clatter of a mug, the crinkle of a packet.

The domestic sounds are a strange, soothing counterpoint to the animalistic noises that filled this room just minutes before.

I pull the afghan from the back of the couch and drape it over myself, the soft wool a comfort against my oversensitive skin.

He returns with two mugs.

One steams with the rich, dark scent of black coffee.

The other holds a warm, gooey brownie he must have microwaved, the chocolate smell mingling with the coffee and our sex.

He hands me the mug with the brownie first, his eyes soft.

"Eat," he says, his voice quiet. "You need your strength."

I take a bite.

It’s warm and fudgy, the simple, sweet taste a grounding anchor in the whirlwind of sensation.

He sits on the edge of the couch, sipping his coffee, watching me.

The silence isn't awkward.

It's thick, laden with everything we just did, everything we just became.

I finish the brownie, the sugar hitting my system, and take a sip of the coffee he offers me.

It’s bitter and perfect.

I set the mug on the floor and pull the afghan tighter around my shoulders, drawing my knees up to my chest.

He reaches out, tucking a strand of sweat-damp hair behind my ear.

His touch is so tender it makes my chest ache. "You okay?"

I nod, but the motion feels like a lie.

The real world, the one we’ve been hiding from, is starting to seep back in at the edges of this warm, sex-hazed bubble.

I look at him—at the relaxed set of his shoulders, the peaceful expression on his face—and I know I have to be the one to break it.

"We can't stay here, Nico."

His hand stills on my hair.