Page 71 of The Ache That Stayed

“Santino.”

His name came out as a moan.

My heart was racing. Too fast. Too loud. I could hear the blood swishing in my ears.

Him kissing me this way, like he had been starving. Like he had been holding it back for years and his dam of restraint just burst open, flooding us with buried desires.

And I responded to him with equal hunger and fervour like I was a completely different person. I barely recognised the woman who was chasing his fire.

Santino bit down lightly at the curve of my neck, drawing out a sharp mix of pleasure and pain. My fingers tightened in his hair as my body writhed against him, thighs pulling him closer.

My breath came out in broken pieces as my heels dug into him, blackening my vision.

Marcello.

His image flashed behind my lids, slamming into me like ice water. My eyes flew open.

I shoved hard against Santino’s chest.

“Stop.”

The word came out breathless. He froze instantly, his hands loosening as he stepped back.

The sudden space between us felt wrong, my body instantly aching for the warmth it had just lost—even as my mind screamed otherwise. And I hated it.

I slid off the counter quickly, my pulse still racing, my lips tingling.

“This was a mistake.”

My voice sounded steadier than it felt, words landing heavier than I meant them to.

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, breathing hard, expression dark and unreadable. His grey eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them. Silence filled the kitchen. And suddenly the room felt far too small for both of us.

I stepped back slowly toward my room, eyes not leaving his, then turned around and bolted.

I didn’t know what would’ve happened if I’d stayed a second longer. Probably would’ve succumbed to the lust coursing through my veins. This was wrong all the way to Sunday and I didn’t want to think about it any further.

Santino was dragging something reckless and hungry out of me, pulling me toward forbidden lines I hadn’t even known existed. And the worst part was how badly some traitorous part of me wanted to follow.

He was peeling back layers I had spent years building around myself—responsibility, motherhood, maturity—until I no longer recognised the woman underneath.

I reached the door and shut it harder than necessary. I was angry at myself. Angry at how my body reacted to him—like it recognised his touch and wanted to give in.

For the first time, I locked the door. The click echoed louder than it should have. I leaned back against the door, chest rising, pulse still out of control.

Silence pressed in. But it didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt dangerous. Because he was still out there. And for the first time since he’d come back, I wasn’t sure I wanted him gone.

CHAPTER 18

Santino

The door clicked shut. She’d locked the door. A barrier she’d built between us, solid and unmistakable, one I wasn’t meant to cross. Because if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have let her walk away.

For a moment I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there staring at the space she’d left behind, like the echo of her might still be lingering in it.

It wasn’t. But I felt it anyway.

Her.