She was gone for him.

Completely. Shamelessly. Forever.

And the way he stopped the elevator doors—bare palm hitting the button like a vow, like he dared the world to interrupt them? God.

That.

That was the kind of thing she’d replay in her mind when they were apart. The kind of thing that turned her bones to heat. Because it wasn’t just possessive—it was personal.

It wasn’t Marco.

It was Nico.

Her Nico.

And when he said “Say it again,” all low and reverent and right into her skin—

She smiled.

Not coy. Not controlled.

Lit.

Her fingers curled into his jacket as her lips brushed his again—barely, like a tease, like the kind of promise that came with a body count.

“Nico.”

A kiss.

“Nico…”

Softer. Lower. Tongue brushing his bottom lip, just to make him twitch.

Another kiss. This one fuller. Deeper.

Then she leaned in, lips grazing the shell of his ear—deliberate, unhurried.

“Nico,” she whispered again.

Just like she did when he was inside her.

The sound of it made his hands grip her tighter, like he felt the memory she’d conjured and didn’t know whether to kiss her or lift her right there in the damn elevator.

Her breath hitched, and for once she didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t try to smother the rush of want that hit her like a wave. Because there was no audience here. No cameras. No lines to deliver or gowns to maintain.

Just the man she loved.

And the thrum in her chest that only he could pull from her.

She reached down—not for his hand, but for his tie.

Two fingers looped around it, slow and sultry, like she was dragging him by a lifeline spun from lust and memory.

Not a tug.

A claim.

She backed toward the hallway, drawing him with her—gown swaying, mouth parted, eyes full of fire.

The lighting was low. Honeyed. The kind that made skin look golden and eyes look darker.

She glanced over her shoulder, playful and wicked and so fucking in love.

“Come on,” she purred, her voice nothing short of bedroom-velvet. “I want you naked and on your knees before the room key hits the table.”

A grin.

A challenge.

A promise.

Because tonight wasn’t about winning.

It was about them.

Everything they’d survived. Everything they were.

And the truth was—

She’d never loved being ruined more than when it was by him.

The second that door closed—soft click, sharp finality—he didn’t hesitate.

No smirk. No slow unraveling of his jacket. No clever remark about how he always knew she’d break first.

Just motion.

Purpose.

Nico pressed her back to the door in one fluid step, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip like he was reminding her who she’d just invited in—not just with words, but with every damn kiss, every whisper of Nico spoken like prayer and possession. His mouth crashed to hers not with desperation—but with authority.

The kind that came from knowing.
From having her.
From earning her.

His kiss was deep. All tongue and heat and memory. The kind that turned her spine to water and made her fists ball in the front of his shirt like she might pull him through her skin if she could. She moaned—soft, guttural, unguarded—right into his mouth, and he swallowed it like a man who had been starving.

“Emilia,” he rasped against her lips, voice wrecked, reverent, wild.

Then his hands were everywhere.

Down her sides. Over the swell of her ass. Up the back of her thighs, bunching silk like it was offending him just by existing. He needed her out of it. Needed her.

Not the dress.
Not the spectacle.
Not the lie.

Her.

And she gave it to him.

Her hands found the buttons of his shirt, and it was chaos—one popped, two torn, the rest pushed aside with a kind of practiced need that came only from being in love with someone long enough to forget patience. Her nails scraped his chest and he groaned into her mouth like she’d struck a chord beneath his ribs.

They stumbled backward—her laugh a broken, breathless thing that hit him harder than any climax ever had. He followed, guiding her blindly, hands beneath her thighs now, lifting her, carrying her toward the bed like she didn’t weigh anything.

She clung to him. Wrapped around him. Legs locking behind his back like muscle memory, mouth back on his, kissing like she’d waited weeks, months, lives.

And then—the bed.

He laid her down like something holy, like a man revering the altar and the storm.

Then paused.

Just long enough to look at her.

To see her.

Hair wild against the pillows. Gown wrinkled and rising, legs bare and parted slightly, lips bruised from kisses she didn’t regret. Her eyes were half-lidded, smoky with lust, but open—watching him, vulnerable, real.

Emilia.

No pretense.

No performance.

Just his.

And when he knelt between her knees, hands dragging up her thighs like worship, voice low and breaking—

“You already ruined me, baby…”

He leaned in, mouth hovering just above her skin, breath a promise.

“…now let me return the favor.”

And when he kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and reverent, like he could taste every version of her—Lilith, Celeste, the girl in silk, the woman who whispered his name like salvation—he did it with full knowledge:

She would remember this.

Not the paparazzi.

Not the awards.

Not the myth.

This.

Him.

On his knees.

Unmaking her beautifully.
And putting her back together with his hands.

She didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.

Her breath hitched the moment his lips touched the inside of her thigh, and suddenly the room was made of nothing but heat and him.

Every part of her was lit.

Her head tilted back against the pillow, lips parted in a gasp that didn’t quite find voice. Her lashes fluttered, heavy with lust, and her fingers—God, her fingers—were already gripping the sheets like they were the only thing tethering her to earth.

Because this—
This was her favorite version of him.

Not the showman. Not the smooth-talker.

But the man who worshipped.

The one who made a meal out of her sighs and turned her thighs into scripture.

She looked down at him through the haze, and the sight—
Him there, between her legs, broad shoulders haloed in low light, his jaw working slowly against her skin as if memorizing each inch—

It was almost too much.

She bit her lip. Let out a shaky exhale.

“Nico…”

A whisper.

Barely audible.

Not meant to tease this time, not flirt or flinch—just need.

She was already trembling, and he hadn’t even reached where she really wanted him yet.

His hands—rough, calloused, hers—slid higher with the kind of patience that made her ache.

And she loved it.

The control he showed in contrast to the fire in his eyes. The way he made her feel like the only thing in the universe worth slowing down for.

Because it wasn’t just sex.

It never had been.

It was them.

Her hips arched slightly, inviting. Offering.
A silent plea for more. For him.

And when his mouth moved higher, open and hot, she finally moaned—
A soft, sultry sound that vibrated in the air like music only he got to hear.

She didn’t need to speak.

Her body said it all.

The way her hands reached for him—slid into his hair, held him there like he was the prayer she hadn’t realized she was whispering all night.

The way her legs shifted wider, inviting his ruin like a blessing.

The way she looked at him—no veil, no performance, no spotlight—just love.

Raw. Radiant. Devastating in its honesty.

She adored him.

Not just for the way he touched her.
But for the way he knew her.

And as his mouth found her again, kissing higher, deeper, hungrier—

Her fingers tightened.

Her back arched.

Her lips parted—this time in surrender.

Because she was already gone for him.

And God help her—
She never wanted to come back.

He felt her shift before he heard her.

The subtle arc of her hips. The breath she tried to catch and couldn’t. The tremble that ran through her like a ripple across silk.

And when she whispered his name—Nico—like it wasn’t a name but a confession, he paused.

Not to tease.
Not to hold control.

But to revel.

To feel the gravity of it.

Of her.

Of this—her body in his hands, her voice falling apart just for him, her soul peeled back in the quietest, rawest form of want he’d ever known.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, and for a moment the room disappeared. There was no velvet curtain. No city waiting behind the windows. No stage to return to.

Just her.

Lit by low lamp light and love.
Laid out like divinity.
Shaking like she wanted to be remembered.

He dragged his hands up her thighs again, slower this time, thumbs carving invisible lines into her skin like scripture. His breath was warm where she needed it most, but he didn’t give it to her yet. Not fully. Not until she felt all of him—every ounce of reverence, every thread of worship, every beat of the heart that had always belonged to her.

His mouth returned to her skin—open, wet, hungry.

He kissed like he meant it.

Like she was something holy, and he was starving for absolution.

The kind of kiss that didn’t just take—it gave.

She moaned.

Not loud. Not staged. Just real.

And God, the sound of it—

It made his hands tighten, his body burn, his name catch on the back of his throat like she’d branded it into him.

Because she had.

She always had.

His hair was a mess now, her fingers buried in it, holding him there—not desperate, not begging. Anchored. As if she needed him to stay in the exact place where she came undone best.

He would.

For hours.
For lifetimes.
As long as she wanted.

Because this?

This wasn’t him taking control.

This was him offering himself.
Mouth, hands, breath—everything.

She wasn’t just his favorite song.

She was the anthem his body answered to.

And as she writhed beneath his mouth, sighing his name like litany, he thought:

This is what forever sounds like.

And he would never stop listening.

She felt his breath first.

Right there—so close to where she needed him it made her hips lift off the bed in instinctive, aching plea.

And when he didn’t give in immediately—when he hovered, kissed lower, kissed slower—

Her entire body tightened.

“Nico…” she breathed, voice wrecked and wanting.

She meant it as a whisper.
It came out like a whimper.

He looked up at her, and fuck—she almost came just from that.

The way his eyes dragged over her like he was seeing the whole universe in her ruined silk and trembling thighs.
Like she was something wild and holy and his.

His grip on her legs shifted—firmer now, thumbs digging just enough to ground her. To claim her.

And then his mouth—God, his mouth—was everywhere.

Open. Wet. Hungry.

Kisses trailing heat up her thighs, then biting softly at the inside—so close. So fucking close it made her fingers claw into the sheets and her back arch like a bowstring pulled taut.

She couldn’t keep quiet.
Didn’t want to.

He was dragging her apart in the slowest, sexiest way possible—teasing without mercy, devouring without rush.

Her hands dove into his hair, desperate now.

“Please,” she gasped, breath stuttering. “Baby, please—”

But he wasn’t cruel.
He was deliberate.

He growled low, like her begging did something to him, and then—finally—his mouth claimed her.

Hot. Deep. Perfect.

Lilith cried out, legs locking around him, hands fisting at the base of his neck to hold him there.

And he stayed.

God, he stayed.

He knew her—knew every spot, every flick of tongue, every pressure point that made her sob his name like a woman falling apart at the altar of the only man she’d ever truly worshipped.

Her hips rolled against his mouth, needy and unfiltered, thighs trembling around his shoulders as he worked her open with lips and tongue and those fucking fingers—sliding in, curling just right, coaxing pleasure out of her like music.

She couldn’t breathe.
Could barely think.

All she knew was the build—
The burn—
The way he held her like a storm he wanted to drown in.

“Nico, fuck—yes, just like that—don’t stop—”

She was close.

Too close.

And when he looked up at her again, eyes dark, jaw wet, mouth still moving—

It was over.

Her body shattered beneath him, a wave crashing hard and fast and helpless.

She moaned his name, loud, raw, real, hips trembling as he held her through it—never stopping, never letting go.

And even as she came, stars bursting behind her eyelids—

She knew one thing with absolute clarity:

This wasn’t just sex.

It was everything.

This was Nico wrecking her like a man who’d never stopped choosing her.

And she’d let him do it again.

And again.

And again.

He felt it.

The exact second she tipped over the edge—when her back arched like lightning had struck her spine, when her legs locked around his shoulders like she was anchoring herself to him, when his name tore from her lips like confession and climax in the same breath.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t ease up.

Didn’t give her space to come down.

Because he knew her.

Knew how she wanted to be held through it—how she craved that quiet, relentless reverence in the aftershock. The way she needed pressure, rhythm, presence until the quake inside her softened into something sweet and sacred.

His mouth never left her.

Tongue slow now. Tender. Still tasting her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again. His fingers stayed inside her, curved just right, coaxing her through every aftershock, milking every twitch and tremble like he needed to feel her fall apart a second time.

And when she moaned his name again—raw, broken, real—

God, it wrecked him.

Not because it made him hard—he already was, painfully so—but because it made him feel.

That sound wasn’t just want.
It was trust.
It was surrender.
It was Emilia, stripped down to nothing but love and ruin and him.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Then another. Then one lower—closer to her hip now, softer, reverent.

And when he finally pulled back, his jaw and lips slick with her, eyes dark with worship and wonder—

He looked up at her like she was the only thing that had ever made him believe in something more than music.

And fuck, she was beautiful like this.

Hair fanned out on the pillows, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon barefoot through heaven, eyes glassy and dazed but still watching him. Still seeing him.

He rose slowly—hands dragging up her sides, over her stomach, up to cup her face like she might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

He kissed her—slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

Not to shock her.

To share it.

To say: you are mine. You are magnificent. You are more than I will ever deserve.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

His forehead rested against hers, breathing in sync, fingers brushing damp strands of hair from her temple.

And in that silence, his body wrapped around hers, heartbeat thundering in his chest—

He didn’t need to say I love you.

Because everything he just did was.

And in her breathless, boneless glow, he swore:

He’d do it again.

And again.

And again.

Until she forgot every man that came before him.
Until her knees only remembered his name.
Until her body knew no other language but his.

She felt it too.

The moment he knew.

The way his mouth didn’t falter. The way his fingers kept their rhythm—slow, sure, coaxing. The way he stayed with her, held her in it, through it, past it.

Not like he was trying to finish something.

Like he was trying to honor it.

Her body was still shaking, breath shallow and wrecked, lips parted around the sound of his name.

And he didn’t stop.

God, she loved that he didn’t stop.

That he knew.

Knew how her body craved that continued pressure, that anchor, that reverence after being split open. Knew how to kiss her like an oath. How to touch her like she was holy and his hands had just found religion.

Her thighs trembled around his shoulders. Her fingers gripped his hair—not to pull him back, but to keep him there.

Stay.
Stay with me.
Stay in this.

He did.

Every kiss to her thigh was a vow.
Every drag of his mouth—tender now, almost worshipful—was a benediction.

And when he finally rose, glistening jaw, pupils blown wide, that look in his eyes—

She forgot how to breathe.

Because no one had ever looked at her like that.

Not the real her. Not this her.

Like she was the miracle.
Like every inch of her body, every sound she made, every part of her—flushed, shaking, undone—was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And when he kissed her—slow, deep, tasting of her—

She melted.

Melted into his hands, his mouth, the press of his chest against hers.

Because that kiss wasn’t about sex.

It was about claiming.
About belonging.

It said everything they hadn’t put words to yet.

You are mine.
You undo me.
I would worship you like this for the rest of my life if you’d let me.

Her hand came up to his jaw, thumb brushing the damp corner of his mouth, like she could memorize the moment by touch alone. Her other hand slid down his chest—slow, reverent—feeling the hard thrum of his heart beneath her palm.

And still, she didn’t speak.

Because how could she?

When everything he’d just done—everything he was—had stolen every word from her throat except one.

“Nico…”

Softer this time.

Like a secret.
Like a homecoming.

Their foreheads touched. Their breath mingled. The heat between them didn’t fade—it simmered, pulsed, promised.

Her voice was lower when she spoke again—huskier, wrecked, full of heat and honey.

“Come inside me.”

A kiss to his jaw.

“I want to feel all of you.”

A kiss to his neck, slower now.

“Every inch. Every word you’re not saying.”

Her legs parted again, inviting, welcoming.

Her body was still glowing, still soaked in the aftershocks of him.

And yet—God help her—

She was already aching for more.

He felt it.

Not just her heat, or her pulse, or the tremble still riding through her thighs like echoes of a storm that refused to pass. No—he felt something deeper. Something buried beneath the silk and sighs and sweat-slicked skin.

That pull.

That invisible tether between her breath and his heartbeat. Between her whisper and his name. Between the place she’d just come undone—and the part of him that would never recover from witnessing it.

She didn’t say much.

She didn’t have to.

Because when she said Nico—that low, wrecked, secret version of it—it wasn’t a name. It was a vow. A homecoming. A claim.

And when she said, “Come inside me”?

His breath hitched.

His eyes flickered—want and worship crashing together, a tide too strong to stand against.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words were there—pressed against his ribs, thudding behind his teeth—but they weren’t ready to be spoken. Not yet.

Not when his body was already answering her before his mouth could.

He kissed her again—slower this time. Less hunger. More gravity.

One hand braced beside her head, the other skimming down, dragging the fabric of her dress higher—higher—until there was nothing left between them but intention.

And when he lined himself against her, head bowed, forehead pressed to hers, their breath catching in unison—

He paused.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just to feel her.

Just to remember this.

The tremble in her thighs. The way her lips parted before she moaned. The brush of her fingers against his spine, pulling him in.

Then he pushed forward—slow, deep, deliberate.

A groan broke from his throat—low and guttural, caught between reverence and relief.

Because nothing—nothing—felt like this.

Nothing felt like her.

He filled her completely. Pressed deeper. Let her body stretch and welcome him with that perfect gasp, that hitched breath, that soft fuck that slipped past her lips like it was meant only for him.

And it was.

Everything was.

His body stilled at the hilt, their hips flush, his fingers now tangled in her hair, holding her like he needed her to stay solid, stay real, or he might dissolve right into her.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was rough silk, thick with emotion, edged with devotion:

“You feel like home.”

A kiss to her jaw.

Another thrust—slow, grounding.

“I don’t just want you like this.”

Another kiss, softer now.

“I want every sunrise you’re afraid to wake up to. Every song you’re scared to write. Every inch of you, even the ones you hide from yourself.”

He rolled his hips once—deep, reverent, precise.

“I’m not inside you to fuck you, baby.”

His breath hitched.

“I’m inside you to stay.”

And with every slow, deep movement that followed, he proved it:

That this wasn’t just passion.

It was presence.
It was promise.
It was Nico—hers—choosing her in the quiet, in the glow, in the aftermath.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Her breath caught at his words.

“I’m inside you to stay.”

And God, she believed him.

Not because it was sweet.
Not because it was whispered against her mouth like poetry.
But because she felt it.

In the way he looked at her—like she was the story he wanted to spend the rest of his life reading, over and over, until the pages were worn and the ink bled into his skin.

She cupped his face with both hands, eyes shining, chest aching with something far too big to name.

“I know,” she whispered. “You already are.”

And she kissed him—slow, deep, tender.

It wasn’t about hunger. Not yet.
It was about home.
About pressing her love into him so fiercely it left fingerprints on his soul.

His body moved with hers like a vow. Each thrust purposeful. Deep. Grounding. He rocked into her slowly, hips meeting hers in a rhythm that felt ancient and new all at once.

And she let herself feel it.

The weight of him.
The heat.
The fullness that sent sparks curling up her spine.

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist. Her hands slid into his hair. Her mouth opened on a gasp—

Not because it hurt.
Because it meant something.

And with every slow push, every roll of his hips, her body started to unravel again—sweet and slow this time, like sugar melting on her tongue.

But then—

His mouth found her throat.

Hot. Wet. Open.

And something in her shifted.

Soft moans turned into deeper ones, breathy and broken.
Her hips tilted up to meet his harder now, faster, chasing the edge like it might slip through her fingers if she didn’t grab it.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped against his mouth, nails dragging down his back, thighs tightening like she could pull him deeper, keep him there.

His rhythm changed.
Deeper.
Faster.

He knew her so well—too well.
The way her body clenched when he angled his hips just right.
The way she whimpered when he kissed her breasts, suckled and bit until her back arched.

“Fuck, Nico—”

It was breathless now.
Frantic.

Their bodies were slick with sweat.
Her hair stuck to her face.
The headboard hit the wall in time with their gasps.

And then his fingers slipped between them, found her clit, and pressed.

She shattered.

Right there.

With his name on her lips and love in her bones.

She cried out, body trembling, pulsing around him—clenching, pulling, owning.

And when he followed—thrusts stuttering, moaning her name into her neck as he came deep inside her—

She kissed him again.

This time slow.

This time sweet.

Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was theirs.

Love and lust.
Tears and teeth.
Forever, etched into skin and sweat and the sacred act of choosing each other again.

She smiled against his lips, breath still shallow.

“I’m not letting you go either.”

And she meant it.

In every gasp.
In every bruise.
In every beautiful, breathless, wrecked part of her that only he would ever know.

He was gone for her.

Not just in the heat of the moment, not just in the way his body trembled as she clenched around him, not even in the guttural sound that escaped his throat as he spilled into her like it was a vow—

But in the marrow.

In the way her name lived behind his teeth, caught between love and reverence.
In the way his soul reached for her like he’d known her in a hundred lives, and would find her again in a hundred more.
In the way her eyes—glass-bright, wrecked, wide open—made him feel seen in a way that stripped him to the bone.

When she cupped his face, her hands warm and shaking with aftershock, he leaned into them like a man being blessed. Her touch was trembling, but sure. Like even in her most unraveled state, she knew exactly where he belonged.

And when she said “I know. You already are,”—

It shattered something sacred inside him.

Because it wasn’t just a line.

It wasn’t performance.
It wasn’t pillow talk.
It wasn’t Lilith or Celeste or the woman the world worshipped in black silk and blood-red lips.

It was Emilia.

Raw. Real. Still trembling beneath him, and still holding his heart like it was hers by birthright.

And when she kissed him?

Slow. Deep. Infinite.

It wasn’t to take.

It was to give.

Everything she was, everything she felt—pressed into the shape of her mouth, breathed into his lungs like she was rewriting him one gasp at a time.

His hips were still rolling into her, the pace slower now but deeper, like he was carving himself into her body. Each thrust felt like a confession, like a promise, like he was pouring every unspoken word into her the only way he knew how.

Their sweat mingled. Their gasps overlapped.

Her legs were still wrapped tight around his waist, ankles locked at the base of his spine, pulling him in like she didn’t just want him closer—she wanted to keep him. Keep his weight. Keep his breath. Keep the echo of his name where she could feel it even when he was gone.

Her hands slid into his hair again, fingertips gliding across his scalp, holding him not in desperation—but in worship.

Her gasp turned to a moan when he kissed her throat again—open-mouthed, slow, letting his tongue trace the column of her neck like it was poetry. When he pulled back, her pulse was fluttering against his lips.

Then the shift came.

That sharp edge in her voice when she said “Don’t stop,”
The way her back arched again, hips tilting to meet his with more urgency,
The way her nails dragged down his back, not to hurt—but to mark.

And God, he gave it to her.

Rhythm deepened.
Pace quickened.
His body became an extension of hers—matching her need, meeting her ache, fucking her like he could feel her heartbeat in the center of his own spine.

He knew exactly how to angle his hips.
Knew exactly how to roll them.
Knew exactly how to suck her nipple into his mouth while still rocking into her so deep she gasped his name like it was everything.

And when he slipped his hand between them—fingers finding her clit, pressing, circling, coaxing—

She shattered.

Her body arched beneath him like lightning.
A cry ripped from her throat—his name, his name—and she broke around him again.
Tight. Wet. Clenching like she was trying to pull his soul into hers.

And fuck, he couldn’t hold on.

Not when she looked at him like that.
Not when her body took him in like she was made for it.
Not when she kissed him through her climax—moaning into his mouth, shaking under his hands, eyes wide and wild and wet with something too deep for words.

He followed her.

Of course he did.

Thrusts stuttering.
Breath catching.
Spilling into her with a sound that was half curse, half prayer.

“Emilia—fuck, baby—”

And then silence.

Sacred.
Golden.
Heavy with breath and heat and everything.

He stayed inside her. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t even blink.

Just pressed their foreheads together, lips brushing, heartbeat slowing in tandem with hers. His hands slid to her face, cupping her like she might vanish if he wasn’t careful.

And when she smiled—wrecked and radiant, hair stuck to her cheeks, eyes half-lidded but full of light—and whispered “I’m not letting you go either,”—

That was it.

His heart didn’t just break.

It offered itself.

He kissed her once, soft and slow, breathing in her moan like a promise. Then again, just under her jaw, where he could feel the last flutter of her pulse beneath his lips.

And finally—

He whispered, so low it barely existed between them:

“You couldn’t lose me if you tried.”

He kissed her temple.

“I’m yours.”

A kiss to her lips.

“I’m fucking yours, Emilia.”

And when she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, still panting, still glowing, still his—

He closed his eyes.

And thanked whatever stars had led him here.

Because love wasn’t just something they made tonight.

It was something they became.