Page 75 of Pawn
She screams, and I feel her pussy suck me deep inside her.
As her orgasm pulses over my cock, I go rigid and explode inside her.
Collapsing on top of her I fight to catch my breath. Fuck.
She is perfect.
She wiggles a little, letting me know I’m too heavy for her.
I flip her onto her back in one swift motion, pinning her beneath me. She gasps, her legs wrapping around my waist as I drive into her, hard and deep. The bed creaks beneath us, the sound mixing with our ragged breaths and the slick, wet sounds of our bodies coming together.
I can feel my orgasm building again, the pressure coiling tight in my gut. But I want her to come with me. I want to feel her fall apart around me.
I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit again, and I press down, rubbing in tight circles. She’s so sensitive, her body jerking beneath me, her moans turning desperate.
“Guido—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
And then she’s coming, her back arching off the bed, her pussy clenching around me so tight it pulls my own release from me. I come with a groan, my cock pulsing inside her as I spill into her again. She milks me dry, her body shuddering with the aftershocks of her repeated orgasm.
We collapse together, our skin slick with sweat, our breathing slow and heavy. She’s sprawled across my chest now, her dark hair fanned out over my shoulder. I can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against my skin.
After a while, she lifts her head, her chin resting on my chest as she looks up at me. A smirk plays at her lips, but her eyes are soft. I chuckle, exhausted.
I wrap my arm around her.
Both of us breathing hard. Wrapped in our own private world while the city moves past the windows the way the city always moves — indifferent, relentless, the engine of a world that does not care that two people whose fathers put them on a board before they could read just chose each other in the wreckage of every wall those fathers built.
“My father saw your face, and I know what it did to him,” she says. Quiet. Her fingers trace the line of my jaw—Giovanni’s jaw, the bone structure of the man who mapped her life when she was nine. “He saw your mother in your eyes.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what that means? For us?”
My thumb moves along her collarbone. Slow. The only honest answer I have.
“It means we are the thing neither of them planned for,” I say. “Giovanni put us on the board. Emiliano tried to keep you off it. And here we are — two pieces that moved on their own. Two pieces that chose each other instead of the game.”
Her breath catches. Her fingers tighten on my jaw.
“That is either the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” she whispers, “or the most fucking dangerous.”
“Both,” I say. “It is both.”
She’s Back
My phone buzzes against the nightstand.
Liana’s arm is across my chest. Her breathing slow. Her hair fanning across the pillow in the dark — black against white, the kind of contrast that belongs in a photograph nobody will ever take because this thing between us does not exist in the world where photographs are taken and shown to people. This thing lives in the margins. In the gaps. In the negative space between two empires that would burn each other to the ground if they knew what their children were doing in a pale-walled apartment funded half by a dead man’s ghost.
The buzz is wrong.
I know before I look. The frequency is off — the vibration pattern that separates my channels, the coded language my phone speaks depending on who is reaching through it. This is my personal line. The one that connects to the penthouse. The one that carries the voices of the people who live inside the walls I have spent seven months learning to call home.
Marisol.
I reach for the phone without waking Liana. Careful. The movement practiced — seven months of living in a household where every sound carries, where every door opening changes the rhythm of the kitchen, where a boy who reads absence has learned to move through the dark the way his mother taught him. Invisible. Quiet. Present without disturbing the thing beside him.
