Turning Point||Book 2

47: Romano/Xenia

Romano De Rossi

I couldn't quite pinpoint it; just an inescapable urge to have her close, to merge myself with her, to hear her soft moans in my ear. It was uncontainable, impossible to ignore, reminiscent of moments when one felt that this could be the very last opportunity for something to happen and wanted to savor every last moment of it. That's why, after hiding the key under a book on the shelf, I sought her out in bed at the break of dawn.

My insistent touches roused her, and as if she could sense that urgent, persistent desire to capture the fleeting moment, she welcomed me without hesitation, with a sense of purpose, and I didn't go slow, couldn't take it easy because I was not only in hurry, but damaging myself further with the encounter.

I fucked her with a condom, but it felt just as raw, just as wild. It was painfully so. I had chosen to use that latex barrier for our emotional and not just sexual protection, but I wished it had made a difference.

At one point during the ordeal, Xenia broke into sobs; she could feel the pain, not against her flesh, but in the disparity of the experience. I had never reached to stop her tears before now, so she cried even more when I wiped her face and kissed her hard. I could feel it coursing through my veins, my blood burning beneath my skin, even as fearful chills ran against it.

She did ask, through tear-filled moans, "Something is wrong, isn't it?"

And because I was tired of acting tough around her, tired of lying that I had it perfectly under my control, I nodded, mid-thrust. "Everything's wrong."

Just like that, we didn't discuss it further. I appreciated her silence, her acceptance, because it spared me the torment of having to lie once more or shield her from the truth. She never should have written that book, God. Joanna should have died, leaving her with no financial burdens that drove her to desperation. Or perhaps, I should have killed her on the night of my inauguration, before things became too complicated for me.

As I reclined against the bed, I positioned her to sit on top me, and she rode with recklessness, without caution, her hair swaying back and forth, her brown, wet eyes daring me to meet her gaze.

"Got something to say?" I asked, hands resting against her tits, sensing the words hovering on the tip of her tongue.

After a brief moment of hesitation, she shook her head vigorously. "I'm tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of wishing, tired of hoping. I'm tired of worrying."

"Me too," I echoed. Then, I shifted her into missionary position, sliding myself between her legs as she wrapped them around me. She tightened me there with a message: don't go.

"What does it take to earn your forgiveness?"  My thrusts slowed significantly when she froze at my question. Her eyes darted around my face, searching for something.

"It depends on what I'm meant to forgive," she replied after a moment of contemplation.

Anticipating that revealing the plan beforehand would spoil it, I resumed thrusting inside her, distracting her from her curiosity.

"And yours?" she asked, lifting my face from her chest and gazing into my eyes. "What does it take to earn your forgiveness, let's say I'm doing something wrong?"

Was she hinting at getting closer to Max? I didn't dare entertain that notion, but the possibility fueled my response. I wrapped a hand around her throat, tightening it until I heard her breath hitch. "You know the rules. Loyalty above all else."

She slapped my grip away and fought me off her, retreating to the wall. Worry, fear, and sadness etched across her face. She was panting heavily. "So you can't forgive seeing another man with me?"