She was incredible. He stared into her eyes, watched a glimmering white spot there, felt her breathe against him, felt her soft wet grip on his aching cock. Her pussy was soaking and he’d just left her filled with four years of his desire for her. He was still hard as stone, slipping inside her with their wet, the slightest movements sending excitement down the length of his cock and tickling his brain. Right now as hard as he’d ever been, his cock buried inside the woman he loved. They breathed and stared, their eyes exploring, feeling each other’s warmth against one another. He listened to the fabric of their clothes rustle with each heave of breath; the squeak of his own leather, the pounding of his heart beating in his ear drums.

“I love you,” he breathed, and she closed her eyes.

Her head nestled in the crook of his neck and her soft delicate breath soughed across his ear, “I love you, Rocco,” and he felt himself reeling. All that he’d denied himself was his again, in his arms, wrapped around his steely shaft. He kissed her, this time slow, teasing her, drawing out their contact, their mouths inexorably coming together, their narrow eyes piercing into one another. When they touched, their hearts exploded again, passion renewed with a tidal force. He sunk himself deep inside her and she broke her kiss with an animal cry. That sound drew out his own animal, his own passionate force, and his arms slipped up her sides and he lifted her off his cock, both of them gasping when it fell free. He wanted her naked. He wanted every square inch of his skin to touch hers, needed that soft feel against his hard muscle. Needed her feminine touch against him. He held her, pulled her to him, his cock slipping between her thighs and bumping the stone wall behind her. He groaned in her ear and her hands came down between them.

She took him with both hands, squeezed him in her little grip, her mouth snarled with excitement, watching what she had in her hands. She was still gasping for air, her breasts rising and falling under her blouse. He ached to hold them, to feel their full flesh in his grip, to put his mouth on them, to feel a hard nipple pressed between his lips.

She stroked him with the slickness of her insides, gasped, “Fuck...Rocco...you’re still so hard.”

He pushed her against the wall with his kiss. His hands spread on either side of her. She stroked him still.

“Fuckin’ right,” he said to the soft hairs around her ear, pumping his hips, stroking his size through her two hands. “I’m going to fuck you all night.” He ached for more. He would fuck her all night. He had four years to make up for. He’d fuck her til neither of them could walk.

She read his mind, gasped, “Fuck me all night...fuck me for the four years we were apart...”

And she climbed him, her lips pressed to his, her legs working their way up his thighs and his hands slipped down her curves, feeling every bit of woman that she was, curling around and grabbing that perfect swell of her ass, gripping it tightly and letting his fingers sink into her. He lifted her and her arms went around his neck. Their mouths worked over one another, wet smacking sounds in the quiet house. He walked with her then, walked through the house he’d been hiding in while he planned the hit. Coming to L.A. and staying in this hideout, planning to execute a high-ranking member of the Nero Crime Syndicate, never once thinking it would be the woman he loved. He walked, his boots squeaking on the polished tile, crossing over the hard maple, his boots thudding and echoing. Then they were in the living room, the room he’d been sleeping in, dreaming of strangling a man in a bathroom, dreaming of the could-have-beens that Chicago meant to him. Dreaming of the day he would make it all right. Never anticipating that it would be like this. Never anticipating that it would feel so good, never anticipating how much he’d missed her and how devastated he would be looking in her eyes again. There were men trying to kill her, trying to kill him, and while there was a million better ways for them to be reunited this was how it was and he would never let her out of his heart again, not for a second.

His knees bumped the top curl of the king size bed and he set his Daniella down, and she mewled as he let her go, her eyebrows tenting, wanting him to hold her forever. But he needed something. He needed to see her. He missed every curve of her for four years, dreamed of her and wished his life was better. He wanted to strip her, kiss every bit of her. Then he would fuck her. Then he would fuck her until she was screaming his name in his ear.

She lay under his gaze, her head tilted demurely, chewing her lower lip, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. Fuck, she was everything. Her knees came together like she was shy, her skirt riding high and showing him her stocking thigh. He growled and she shuddered. Her hose were torn at the bend, peeled back showing him her skinned knees. He lowered his lips and kissed them while she watched, and she ran her hands through his hair. Why did he ever fuckin’ leave? He growled again, his hands tearing up those thighs and grabbing her skirt from behind, making her arch her back her tummy thrust to him, her breasts jostling under the silk of her shirt. He unzipped her, a smile curling his lips now and then he gripped it, and dragged it and her hose down her thighs, watching the tight curled edge of the bunched fabric press against her soft thighs. He could smell her now, smell her sex and it drove him wild. He had to stop himself from yanking those thighs apart and running her through deeply with his aching cock. She closed herself off again, her own smile pulling up one sultry corner of her plump lips. Her knees came together and she let them fall to the side, one thigh pressed into the sheets. He kissed the cool outside of her thigh, in a minute he would set her on fire and chase all that cold out of her body. This kiss was a warning to the cold, a tease of what was going to come. He kissed higher, worked his way to her hip and lifted the tail of her shirt. He kissed her soft belly underneath, felt her warmth there, smelled her skin, bringing back so many wonderful memories of a better time, bringing back images of her in dirty hotel rooms and secret rendezvous's. He rose and held two sides of her shirt, gripped them, then with one fierce snap he’d ripped them apart and her buttons scattered and rolled around the floor, bouncing and wobbling. She gasped and sighed, her breasts rising to meet his touch. Her bra clasp was at the front and he twisted it, let loose her smooth soft breasts, watched them as they jiggled and swayed while he pulled the cups away. Her hands came up and she held the lapels of her wool jacket, sucked her lower lip into her mouth, cocking her head coyly then closing the jacket and covering herself. She was toying, but it lowered his brow and he growled, “Let me see them.”

She writhed under him, her thighs rubbing together, her hips dancing on the sheets, her smile peeled her lips away from her teeth and she opened the jacket, showed him her breasts, showed him now her aroused nipples, scrolling up from the soft flesh, climbing for the ceiling and needing to be sucked. He went over her on all fours, and he kissed her chest, kissed her between her breasts, then took a plump nipple between his lip-protected teeth. Hearing the high girl noises it brought out of her made his cock ache and his own hips began to work, humping and flexing. Her nipples rose higher, grew harder, and the skin around them pulled tight and dimpled. Her excitement brought out a groan from him. No one made him feel like this but Daniella.

His mouth traveled then, going up her chest, kissing and sucking its way to her neck, and her bare breasts heaved against him with her breathing. He pulled her to him, pulled her by the lapels of her shirt and jacket, sat her up, straddling her hips. He peeled one shoulder out of her clothes then the other and got her arms over her head, pulling the clothes off, getting her naked. Her hair shook and he smelled that she still used the same shampoo all these years later.

Her mouth slipped over the flared end of his cock and it made him inhale sharply, made his head fall forward, his brain doing a somersault. His cock was sticking up straight and hard through the V of his opened jeans. Her velvet mouth slipped and sucked over him and he held her hair in his hands and stared at the high ceiling. She got his heart hammering in his chest. Her lips kissed and sucked at him, her tongue darting on the sensitive underside of his tip, two soft fists working together, stroking him in unison.

“Ah, fuck, Daniella,” he breathed, his head falling farther back and his mouth hanging open with the pleasure she gave him. “Oh, no, no,” he groaned, feeling her conjuring it up in him again, feeling the pressure building in his balls. “No, baby,” he said, easing her back to lay. Her mouth came off with a suction pop and it made him shudder. Her lips were pouted and puffed from activity and excitement, all her lipstick gone, just his bare and beautiful Daniella. “Let me see you,” he said and she lay back for him, bold enough to lay with her hands up over her head, exposing herself entirely to him, surrendering to him. She looked at him through half-lidded eyes, everything there telling him if he wanted to fuck all night she was game. She wanted it as bad as he did.

“Fuck, Daniella,” he said, his hands going up and down, feeling her fine and soft form under his hard hands. He worked her flesh from the sensitive spot under her arms, down her tummy and thighs, stroking down to her knees.

“Daniella, you...you’re more beautiful than ever. I can’t get enough of you, you’re so perfect,” he said, his hands squeezing at her waist and his thumbs stroking her ribs. He ached to be inside her again. He ached to be inside her all night long.

* * *

His eyes pored over her like he wanted to consume her. He had her insides sweating a sticky spate. His gaze was like his touch and she writhed under him, was dying to feel him inside her again. They were going to do this all night.

“You now,” she whispered.

He stood, peeled that jacket off, and let it fall to the floor. This room he was in, seemed to have been sleeping in, was tall, and snowy light drifted through white gauzy curtains. The wall behind him was exposed stone. It was quiet but for the hum of a furnace below them. They were making their own heat today. Tonight. Maybe all day tomorrow. Maybe all fucking week. His arms bulged and flexed, his forearms rippling as his fingers worked apart the fastenings of his bulletproof vest. Then it was off, and he just wore a black T-shirt. She bit her lip again, dragged her teeth over it watching him peel the shirt off and let it fall, his eyes on her now. He was as muscular as ever. Broad slab of a chest, round shoulders as big and hard as cannonballs. His belly rippled and heaved, plates of muscle pushing against the skin as he breathed. His veins ran through his arms like cables and that thick cock poked out of the gap in his pants. He was fucking beautiful. He kicked his boots off, peeling them by the heel with a toe, his jeans sliding down his thighs and that monster wagging between his legs. He crawled naked up the bed, his eyes on hers and she opened her arms to welcome him.

“Let me see you,” she said quietly.

Rocco straddled her hips, his muscular thighs spread over her, his manhood bobbing, his balls hanging heavy. Her fingers traced the drawing on his arms. He was tattooed from his shoulders down. Dragons and oceans, and sailing ships and all sorts of things coming together in some story that made sense to him. He came from pain, and he told her once the drawings were his life story. He had something new across the right side of his chest that she couldn’t read because of the glare when he’d stood at the foot of the bed. She spread her hand over his shoulder and held him from moving and he watched her eyes as she took the new drawing in.

It was a tiger, its masculine feline form twisted, watching over its shoulder, a fierce jungle cat rippling with muscle and danger and its eyes growling, Don’t fuck with me. In a script above the tiger her name was drawn in swooping calligraphy. She ran her index finger, tracing her own name, Daniella, as it scrawled across where his heart would beat.

“I thought about you every day, Daniella. I missed you every fucking day. Ached for you.”

She put a finger to his mouth, her nail dragging down and curling that plump biteable lower lip. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want explanations, didn’t want to dwell on the loss, the whys; she just wanted him. He was here with her now and they would figure all of that out in time. Right now, she wanted him. Wanted his body, his mouth, his cock. She wanted to run her nails across his back.

That index finger pulled his lip down, let it pop back up and hang lustily. They stared into one another and he watched as her hands explored his bare skin. She let her palms ride over every hard swell, every sharp ridge of his incredible body, their eyes locked together. Her hands went over his hard belly, down those angled muscles at the crest of his hips, and she cupped his hanging balls. When her hand wrapped his shaft she made his eyes close and his breaths come faster. “I’ve missed this body, this cock,” she whispered.

She dug her heels into the mattress and wiggled herself higher up the bed, getting her head under a pillow. There was something uncomfortable there, a bump, something hard pressing against the curled edge of her cranium behind her ear. She wiggled more and it squeaked. A familiar sounding blurt of air, and followed with a wheezy inhale. Her hand went to her head and she pulled at the bump. It was soft, fuzzy. Pulled it to look at it through a lowered brow. It was a stuffed toy. A tiger. Much like one she’d had. One that Tony T had given her when she was young. She squeaked it multiple times and it made her smile. It was bright orange with black stripes and emerald eyes. It had a hard black button nose that had been poking her.

“Got me a stuffed tiger too?” She smiled and she squeaked it in his face, bopped his tiger tattoo with its black nose. “It’s just like the one I had.”

He didn’t smile and his eyes narrowed.

She turned it to face her and she said, “How did you know to get me a tiger if you didn’t know you’d be bringing me here?”

She looked at him and he stared stoically and didn’t answer.

She looked at the tiger again. It wasn’t new. It had seen some wear. Like it had been on a trip around the world. Tufts had been thinned, eyes had lost their smaragdine sparkle. It was old. It was hers. It was the very one she’d grown up with and slept with every night of her teen years.

“Rocco,” she said, “this is mine?”

His eyebrows raised but he still didn’t respond.

“You have my tiger? You sleep with my stuffed tiger?”

He inhaled deeply, sighed, “Yes.”

“You sleep with a stuffy? ...My scary Rocco?”

He kissed her shoulder, said, “It’s not too late for me to strangle you.”

She smiled, let her tiger come to rest face down on her naked chest. It wouldn’t want to witness the things she was going to do.

She whispered, “What would that feel like?”

“Not good,” he said, his deep voice a scary rumble so close and talking about something dastardly.

“Show me,” she said, her voice a soft tentative whisper.

His face went to stone again. His hands covered her collar, smoothed her flesh and she felt her nipples harden until they ached. Then he swooped his hands up to her throat, slowly and sensually. She worked her neck tighter in his grip. Rolling her head around and pushing her throat so it settled into the V shape of both his big hard hands. They closed around her carefully. His hands were huge. Strong. Veins and cords wriggled the backs of them, she felt them move as she lay her palms over his hands.

If they hadn’t sent Rocco, someone would have done this to her. Someone today, another man, a stranger to her, would have closed his hands around her neck and squeezed until she was dead. Her breaths came faster and faster, her heart began racing unbidden, she felt herself on the verge of hyperventilating—not panic. Not panic, because whoever wanted her dead had sent her lover. They had sent the man meant for her and brought them back together. She could feel something rising up in her again, a pulse-pounding passion. Rocco closed only one hand around her throat, held her firmly and her head swelled in a few pumps of her heart. Someone could have killed her so easily. She wanted to call his name, to whisper his own wonderful name in his ear—so he could hear her voice, but he’d squeezed her off. Her eyes rolled up and she felt his other hand between their sexes. He was stroking his own cock. Then it was pressing her again and she tilted her hips to meet his penetration. She was hungry for him. She needed him now. She needed every inch of him as deep as she could take it.

He sunk himself inside her and she spread her legs for him. Inch by thick inch he disappeared inside her body and her eyebrows climbed up into her hairline. Her heart pounded in her eardrums and her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted, she felt them stick together. She wrapped both hands around his big wrist, her hands then stroking up and down his forearm and her nails came out and scored his hard muscular flesh. Still he sunk deeper and now her knees came up high, digging into those blades of thick muscle under his shoulders. Her head was going to explode, the pressure from his iron grip squeezing the life out of her. She was so fragile and he was so strong. When his lips touched hers she came again. She bucked against him, coughed and bit at his kiss, swiveled her hips and squeezed that cock as hard as she could with all her girl muscles. Squeezing and rippling and riding out another orgasm, a weird strangled thing that made her brain blossom with phosphorescent blobs of pleasure that swelled in her vision and then his grip let her loose and she inhaled and it was like a turbo charger for her orgasm. She thrust her head back into the pillow and roared, scratching at her own neck, desperate to live, desperate to breathe, to have another day with Rocco, to fuck and love and eat and marry and bear his children and be together forever.

“Rocco,” she cried in a hoarse intake of breath, and while she was still coming he fucked her. Thrust deep and hard and took her mouth and wove his fingers between hers and brought her hands up over her head. She fell to his power, succumbed to his thrusts. He took her. Fucked her forever and she came again, calling his name and scrabbling her nails all over that steely back. He came too eventually and it was as wonderful and powerful as the first time, deep in her belly, wet and loving and she rode it out with him, her ankles locked over one another, digging hard into his rump, driving him deeper.