Lilith could feel him trembling now — not just in his thighs beneath her palms, but in the way his breath hitched, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly, uneven. He was holding back, trying to savor, trying not to lose himself too soon.

She didn’t give him that choice.

Her pace deepened, deliberate, unrelenting — slow enough to tease, fast enough to wreck him. Every stroke of her tongue, every hollow of her cheeks, every squeeze of her hand worked in perfect rhythm until she could feel the restraint bleeding out of him.

His voice broke first. A strangled groan of her name, torn raw and helpless. The sound poured through her, made her hum around him, a vibration that had his head snapping back against the chair. His grip in her hair tightened, not harsh, just desperate, as if she were the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

She pulled back just slightly, lips glistening, eyes dark and dangerous as she looked up at him. “That’s it,” she purred, voice low and ragged with heat. “Give it to me, amore. Don’t hold back.”

Then she swallowed him down again, deeper this time, until his thighs quaked beneath her touch. She moaned softly around him, savoring the way his entire body shuddered in answer.

And then he broke.

It hit him hard, sudden, unstoppable — a guttural cry that cracked in his chest as he spilled into her mouth, pulse after pulse, his body jerking against her steady grip. Lilith held him through it, worshipful, unyielding, drinking down every ounce of his release without flinching, without falter.

Only when the tremors began to ease did she slow, her tongue giving one last languid sweep before she let him slip free. She licked her lips slowly, deliberately, her smirk curving sharp as she sat back on her heels, eyes never leaving his.

He was wrecked. Chest heaving, curls damp against his temples, his gaze blown wide with awe and ruin.

Lilith tilted her head, her stare sultry and satisfied. “Better than strawberries,” she murmured, her voice honey and smoke.

And as she rose gracefully from the floor, tugging his shirt down over her thighs, she leaned in close to brush her mouth across his jaw — a kiss soft enough to contrast the wreckage she’d just left him in.

“Next time,” she whispered, lips ghosting his ear, “maybe I’ll let you finish breakfast.”

Then she pulled back, leaving him undone in his chair, and smiled — slow, dangerous, endlessly devoted.

Because Lilith Valentine didn’t just love Nico Romano.
She consumed him.

Nico wasn’t sure when exactly it happened — the moment gravity stopped working the way it used to. Maybe it was when her fingers pressed into his skin like sheet music, tracing staves where breath and reason used to live. Or maybe it was when her eyes, dark and steady, held him in place like the silence before a storm. Like she was about to rewrite him in a language only she knew.

He’d come undone before. On stages. In hotel rooms. In the spaces between verses. But this — this was different.

Lilith didn’t just unmake him. She orchestrated the fall.

Every motion was a verse, every breath she stole from his chest a bridge — her rhythm neither rushed nor merciful, just inevitable. She peeled him open like lyrics buried too long in the dark, and when his voice finally broke, it wasn’t from pain or fear.

It was surrender.

Raw, unfiltered, the kind of sound that would never fit on vinyl.

He held on to the edge of the chair like it might keep him from floating too far, but it was her — always her — who tethered him. Her smirk, wicked and soft around the edges. Her voice, velvet soaked in smoke and something ancient. Her devotion, carved in glances and little destructions.

“Better than strawberries,” she murmured, brushing her mouth along the curve of his jaw like punctuation. It wasn’t a kiss, not exactly — more like a signature. Her way of saying mine.

And he was.

Not in the way fans claimed him. Not in the way his music once did.

No — Nico Romano belonged to her the way constellations belong to mythology. Etched into the sky, eternal only because someone decided to tell the story.

And Lilith?

She told it with her hands.

With her eyes.

With every breath she took that made him forget his own name.

As she rose, draped in his shirt like a storm cloaked in moonlight, he stayed frozen in the wreckage — a man rewired by devotion masquerading as ruin. Her silhouette blurred at the edges of his vision, but her presence stayed — stitched into his ribs like a chorus he’d never stop hearing.

Because Lilith Valentine didn’t just love Nico Romano.

She rewrote him.

And he’d never be a solo act