Page 68 of Prince of Vice
"Isabella," - thrust - "you," - thrust - "belong" - thrust - "to," - thrust, "me," he growls, his eyes never leaving mine.
His words act as a catalyst, shattering my control and sending me spiraling over the edge once more. As I come undone beneath him, he follows suit, our bodies trembling in unison as we ride out the waves together.
In the aftermath, I find solace in the tender way he brushes the hair from my face, the warmth of his gaze as he studies me, and the knowledge that, despite everything, we've found something precious within one another.
Our bodies, still entwined, begin to float back down from the heights of passion. Primo's breath, warm and steady, tickles my ear as his chest rises and falls against my back. I can feel his heart pounding in time with mine, a shared rhythm that seems to sing through the room.
"Isabella..." he murmurs, his voice barely audible above the sound of our breathing. I strain to make out his words but they're lost to the shadows – a secret whispered into the darkness.
I close my eyes, letting the memory of his declaration wash over me. The words he spoke while thrusting deep inside me ring through my mind, filling me with a sense of belonging that I've never known before. With each heartbeat, my desire to be his grows stronger.
"Please," I whisper into the night, my lips pressed against the sheets as I send a silent prayer out to whatever deity might be listening. "Let me win this trial for him, so we can have a chance together."
As slumber beckons, I find myself tracing the intricate outlines of Primo's tattoos with my fingertips – a tactile symphony of ink and skin that tells the story of a life lived on the edge. Each curve, each line, is a testament to the man he is; complex, ambitious, and unapologetically primal.
"Isabella?" His voice, soft and laced with curiosity, pulls me from my reverie.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," I say, my fingers stalling in their exploration.
"Your touch... it's soothing," he admits, his eyes heavy with sleep yet still filled with warmth. "I don't mind."
"Good," I smile, resuming my tracing as his eyelids flutter closed once more. "Because I don't want to stop."
Our whispered conversation drifts into the night, weaving in and out of our shared dreams like a thread of silver spun from moonlight.
* * *
I awaken, my throat parched as if I've been wandering through a desert. Primo's rhythmic breathing fills the darkness of the room, and I'm careful not to disturb him as I slip out of bed. The silk sheets whisper against my skin, their cool touch reminding me of his presence.
Padding softly across the plush carpet, I slip into Primo’s discarded shirt and make my way to the kitchen. As I round the corner, my eyes widen in surprise: Charlie is there, his back turned to me as he stirs something on the stove. The dim light casts shadows along the contours of his face, adding years to the lines etched there.
"Charlie!" I exclaim, despite myself. At the sound of my voice, he turns, his crinkled eyes smiling warmly.
"Ah, Isabella," he says, holding his wooden spoon aloft like a conductor's baton. "You're up late."
"Couldn't sleep," I reply, running my fingers through my tousled hair. "My throat feels like it's been sandpapered. What are you doing up?"
"Old people never sleep," he chuckles, stirring his concoction once more. The scent of something savory wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble in anticipation.
"More like old people need their midnight snacks," I tease, grabbing a glass from the cabinet above. I fill it with water from the tap, the liquid glistening.
"Guilty as charged," Charlie admits with another laugh. He places a lid on his pot and turns to face me, leaning against the counter. His gaze grows serious. "How are you feeling about the trial?"
"Hopeful...and terrified," I confess, taking a sip of my water. It's cold and soothing, quenching the fire in my throat. "It's hard not to doubt myself."
"Understandable," Charlie nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "But don't be too hard on yourself. Primo's put you through the wringer, and you've come out stronger for it. Lesser people wouldn't have made it this far."
"Is that so?" I ask, feeling a little bolder. "And what was he like as a child? Just as enigmatic and demanding?"
"Ha!" Charlie laughs, the sound resonating in the otherwise quiet kitchen. "Primo was born with a fierceness most men only dream of possessing. He's always been loyal, determined to get what he wants...and protect those he loves."
I can't help but smile at the thought of a young Primo, already brimming with ambition and intensity. Perhaps it's that spark, hidden beneath layers of darkness, that makes him so captivating.
"Thank you, Charlie," I say, my voice soft and sincere. "For everything."
Charlie studies me for a moment, his warm gaze softening even further. "I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching, Isabella. He won't admit it, but he cares deeply for you too."
A smile tugs at my lips, an unexpected warmth blossoming in my chest. "That's a lovely thought, but we come from two different worlds. How could we ever make this work?"