Page 50 of The Rook’s Obsession

Then I slap them. Left, then right, sharp, stinging blows that make her cry out.

“Please,” she begs. “Please, I can’t…”

“You can,” I tell her, leaning down to bite her earlobe. “And you will. Because if you don’t come this time, I’m going to fuck your ass raw. No lube, no mercy. I’ll take you hard, and you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

I reset the timer one last time. “Two minutes.”

I push back inside her, and she’s so wet, so ready, that she moans like she’s dying. I don’t hold back. I fuck her with everything I have, hard and deep, and punishing, angling perfectly, rubbing her clit in tight, relentless circles.

Thirty seconds. She’s climbing, I can feel it.

Sixty seconds. She’s panting, her head thrown back, her body wound tight.

Ninety seconds. She’s teetering on the edge, and I can feel her fighting it, fighting herself, too scared to let go.

“Come,” I growl. “Come now, or your ass is mine.”

She shatters. Letting out a scream she tries to muffle against her own shoulder, her body convulsing around me, pussy milking my cock in rhythmic spasms that feel like they go on and on. I keep fucking her through it, not letting her stop until the timer beeps again, marking two full minutes of her coming apart beneath me.

Only then do I let myself go, burying myself deep while coming inside her.

Afterward, I untie her slowly, checking her wrists and ankles for marks, massaging the circulation back into her limbs. She lies there, limp and dazed, her eyes half-closed, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“I won,” she murmurs.

I laugh, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah. You won.”

This is different. Not in a bad way. Sitting here in the bath with her back to my front, with her head fitting perfectly in the space between my shoulder and my jaw, her fingertips dancing up and down the length of my forearm once I’ve wrapped my arms around her. Her breathing is slow and steady—soon mine slows to match it. For a long time, there’s nothing but the sound of rain tapping the window and the gentle movement of the water whenever either of us shifts position.

“I could stay here for days,” she murmurs after a while. She sounds drowsy, content. I know the feeling. “One time, I was soaking in the tub and fell asleep, and the next thing I knew, I was choking and sputtering because my face had gone under the water.”

“Wouldn’t that be ironic?” I murmur, my lips close to the hair she piled up on top of her head. “The assassin, drowning in her own bathtub because she fell asleep.”

“I wasn’t quite the assassin yet, but I see your point.” She chuckles softly, nails gently grazing my skin. “Training would exhaust me. I would be covered in bruises, sore in places I didn’t know existed. That was half the reason I spent so long in the tub.”

The thought of her that way makes my jaw go tight and my teeth grind together. Not now. Not during this perfect moment. “What was the other half?”

“I wanted the peace and quiet. Nobody asking anything of me. Just myself, alone in my own head for a little while. Otherwise, everything was a test; even the cooking lessons with Elena ended when Vincenzo sent her away, and that was my only outlet. My only chance of having anything resembling what I imagined was normal.”

“What did she teach you to cook?” Because I’m craving the knowledge. Whatever scraps she feels like sharing, it might help me put together the full picture of who she was over all those years we thought she was gone.

“Would you believe one of the simplest recipes in the whole world took me an entire summer to master? Cacio e pepe,” she explains with a wry chuckle. “It’s just fresh grated cheese, tons of fresh pepper, and the starchy water you cook the pasta in. But I am telling you, it drove me insane. For ages, I kept coming up with pasta held together by clumps of cheese, floating in cloudy water. Elena always encouraged me to try again. And when I finally got it?” She pauses. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious.”

“I would love it if you’d make that for me sometime.”

“I would love to make it for you. And tiramisu. Have you ever had it?”

“I love tiramisu.”

“You only think you do. Wait until you’ve had mine. You’ll weep.”

“I look forward to it.” Truer words were never spoken. I tighten my grip on her and close my eyes, very much aware of the hope that’s flickered to life in my chest, warming me in a way the water can’t. She’s talking about the future. A future in which we’re together, where she’s doing something as simple as cooking for me, and I’m the lucky son of a bitch who gets to enjoy it.

Am I lucky enough for all of that to become reality?

I’d better be, because I’m not sure I could live with the alternative. Not now, after knowing a simple pleasure like this.

IVY