Page 40 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter thirty-five

Blackwell

T he sun is just beginning to bleed in through the curtains when I wake.

The office is still dark, still quiet, save for the slow, even rhythm of her breathing, steady against my chest.

Sinclair’s body molds to mine, fitting like she belongs there.

Her bare leg hooked possessively around my waist, one hand splayed over the heart she carved out as if to anchor herself in place.

Her skin is warm, flushed from sleep, and she hasn’t stirred once.

I wonder if sleep hasn’t come easily these last several days, like it’s been for me.

Last night’s memories still burn beneath my skin. Her hands, her mouth, her softness, fury, and surrender. All tangled together, building up until we finally collapsed into sleep. The first time in so long, I felt at peace.

The thin lines of dried blood on her hip catches my eye.

I drag my thumb over the four crescent-shaped reminders of where my nails dug in.

They edged the old scar her brother left behind when he tried to brand her.

She claimed it back, making it hers. My touch left its own markings behind, and I should feel guilt or shame. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

I brush a knuckle gently across her temple. “Sinclair,” I murmur softly, then press a kiss to her head, taking in her scent. Her eyes flutter, lashes twitching before she peeks up at me with the haze of sleep still veiling her gaze. “We’re going to bed,” I tell her quietly.

She blinks a few times, slowly coming to. She doesn’t speak. Her nod is barely a movement, but I feel it move against my chest.

I reach for the lace robe discarded on the floor and carefully drape it over her shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves like she’s the most fragile thing. She doesn’t protest, just watches me with a strange softness I’ve rarely ever witnessed.

After pulling on a pair of briefs, I turn back to her and offer her my hand. For a moment, she stares at it, brows faintly drawn together as if it’s something she’s unsure of how to accept. Or like it has teeth. Although hesitantly, she reaches for it.

Her fingers slide into mine, tentative but warm. Slightly stiff, but steady. Something feels different, as if we’re finally unified. Like something has been repaired or at least patched enough to hold for now.

We pad through our estate, silent, and our hands still clasped like something sacred. When we reach the stairs, she starts to move ahead, but I stop her. Her eyes lift right before I scoop her up into my arms.

She lets out a squeal of surprise that turns into a giggle, girlish and unfiltered. It’s so unlike her and so unguarded that I grin down at her like a fucking fool as I carry her.

Her arms loop around my neck, and she tries hiding her grin, but it’s wide and uncontainable. So fucking beautiful.

“Brute,” she mutters, her voice light and breathy.

“Never denied it,” I murmur back.

By the time we reach our bed, the sun has continued to climb. I lower her onto the bed we should have been sharing all along. The one I’ve left her alone in. But never again.

I slide in beside her, where I belong.

As soon as my skin is flush with hers, her breathing begins to quicken and her skin heats. That fire only we can make starts. Soon it will engulf us both in the flames.

I can’t keep my lips off her skin, my hands off her curves, my nose buried in her dark hair. God, I love her dark hair. It’s as if she’s shed a layer of her armor. Giving me more of her authentic self.

I turn her on her back, my body over hers, and I stare down at her. “ Lanati, to kheili zibāyi ,” Fuck, you’re so beautiful , I whisper. Her hazel eyes have never looked so soft. They bounce around my face, and she remains docile.

My lips press to her neck, dragging down her body in a heated trail, my rough stubble reddening her skin. Her breath trembles, and her fingers twist in my hair.

I look up at her, my shoulders locking between her thighs. She stares down at me, breath caught in anticipation. Then one side of her mouth quirks in a familiar, wicked smile. That flash of the Sinclair I know strips me of every other thought.

I open my mouth and eat her pussy. My tongue flattens, then flutters. My lips close around her, sucking and pulling. I stab at her core and slurp up her sinful nectar. Her knees hike up, and she moans, her hips rolling. I selfishly drink from her, pulling some of her pleasure for myself.

I could live with my face in her cunt.

“Fuck,” she whines, her back arching off the bed.

I push her legs back, folding her, and crush my face against her. Her body quakes, and her legs fight me, but I continue to feed. Feed until she’s convulsing again.

“Damnit, Blackwell,” she rasps, still trying to squirm from me.

Easing up, I crawl up beside her. Keeping her on her back, I lie on my side, hooking an arm under her knee. Then I slide my cock inside of her, stealing her breath and mine.

Her chin tilts towards the ceiling on a gasp, then she snaps her head down and slaps a hand on the back of my neck to yank me in for a deep kiss. It’s messy and raunchy as we both try to get as many kisses in as possible, like we’re running out of time.

Our arms become tangled, and her other leg joins the one I still have hiked up. She’s folded in half as I pound into her. She mewls in my mouth, and I bite her bottom lip. She whines and crushes her face against mine. Diving her tongue into my mouth.

Using my bicep to clamp her legs down, I slide my fingers against the tautness of her pussy.

Flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves in rhythm with my thrusts.

As soon as she cries out with yet another orgasm, I wrap my fingers around her jaw to hold her close.

Our foreheads pressed together, we share the same breath.

Just as that tingle at the base of my spine spikes and makes its way to my balls, I pull out and explode all over her cunt. Exhaling with every spurt. My hips are still moving. My lungs are still struggling.

Once my body allows me to function, I press my lips to her forehead, eyes closed, breathing her in. I let the kiss linger before parting from her. Only to grab something to clean her off. Then I slink back into bed.

She’s pliant in my arms, her breath ghosting over my chest in soft, slow intervals. The sun is now high in the sky, casting a golden streak across her skin, turning her into something unreal.

Her eyes are closed, her lashes resting against her rosy cheeks, her lips swollen from the way I kissed her. But I know she isn’t asleep.

We’re lying on our sides, our ankles entwined, and her hair tangled. My fingers twist around the strands, over and over, slow and reverent. I could stare at her for hours.

“Why did you come to me last night?” I ask quietly, brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

She hesitates, then opens her eyes and stares back at me for a long moment.

“I wanted to thank you. For finding Blender.” She doesn’t need to say it, but what she meant was she didn’t know how else to thank me.

I won’t call her on it, though. “Harlan said you were pretty determined,” she says, softer this time.

“It was important to you,” I say simply, like it should be reason enough.

She tries to shrink away, like she always does when I get too close. When the truth creeps up, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Sinclair.” Her name slips from me like a promise.

She looks at me, those eyes holding a vulnerability that cuts through me. She’s already retreating in her mind, searching for her next exit. But not this time.

I curl an arm around her waist, pulling her in so she has no choice but to stay. No choice but to hear me.

“There will always be games to be played. But this . This is not a game. You and I are not a game.” I see it then.

The panic flaring in her eyes. The instinct to run.

I hold onto her even more tightly. “You ask anything of me, and you have it,” I say, each word deliberate.

“Every want, every need, it’s yours. Everything I have, every fucking inch of me, is yours. ”

Her eyes glass over with something I can’t name, but I recognize it. She doesn’t know how to receive love, let alone see it when it’s laid bare in front of her.

She shakes her head like she’s trying to physically cast the words off her. “Please, stop,” she whispers.

“No,” I say too harshly. “Not until I’m finished.”

“You said anything I ask of you. Is mine. So, please. Stop saying these things.”

“Once I'm finished.” I tilt her chin up with a curled finger until her shining and wounded eyes meet mine. “Clair.” Her name is a breath of air on my lips. Reverent like a prayer. “I love you.”

It hangs there for a beat. Then another. A breathless silence stretched between two people unraveling in real time.

She blinks slowly. Twice. Then a single tear breaks free, and she swallows it down like poison. But I can see the way her mind is splintering, the way her body trembles like it wants to believe me but doesn’t know how.

Because Sinclair isn’t built for love. She’s fire and smoke. A creature of chaos and independence. She’s unpredictable. Fearsome. Brilliant.

She’s also strong and brazen.

Resilient to a fault.

Loud without making a sound.

Possesses just enough compassion to prove she has a beating heart beneath the armor she forged from pain.

She’s everything I never thought to want. Everything I never dared to believe could exist. Everything I can’t live without.

And somehow, she’s planted something inside of me, and it’s growing into a man born only for her.

She doesn’t try pushing me away.

She doesn’t say something vile to tarnish the moment.

She lets the words continue to hang there between us.