Gaspare
(Set in the third trimester, some weeks before Elio was born. Bonus content.)
There was one chamber in the estate I had been unable to purge for him—a physical manifestation of the seven years he’d spent as a spectral presence in his own life. One night, seven months pregnant and as stubborn as the day I first encountered him, Milo decided we were going to reclaim it together.
The master bedroom. The room he had shared with Vincenzo for seven years, spending half of them shivering on the cold closet floor. He had avoided it since I moved in; we had built our sanctuary in the rooms that had never touched the dead man’s history. I would have demolished the master suite to the studs and never uttered a syllable of protest.
But that night, he took my hand and led me to that threshold. He looked at me with that gaze he uses when he has arrived at a decision and dares me to challenge it. “I am exhausted by the existence of a room in my own residence that I fear. Come assist me in making it ours. I want the final act ever performed in this bed to be one of my own volition.”
So, I took him into the dead man’s chamber, and we dismantled the history, the way we dismantle everything now: together, and entirely on his terms.
I laid him down on the mattress where he had once been a captive, parting his heavy, aching thighs to expose his burning, slick-drenched opening to the cool air. He was magnificent—flushed, heavy-lidded, and round with our son. The new leather-and-steel collar at his throat was a stark contrast to the two marks at his nape: my own loud, searing alpha brand still fresh and angry, Vincenzo’s fading into a ghost of a memory.
I set about overwriting the last remnants of that house with my hands, my mouth, and my scent, flooding the room with my dark, dominant pheromones until there was not a single atom of the old ownership remaining on his skin or in the air. I worshipped the heavy, beautiful curve of his body, cradling the taut swell of our boy in my scarred, rough hands with a reverence that bordered on the fanatical.
His nipples were engorged, darkened, and agonizingly tender from the late-stage pregnancy, the first thin, sweet pearls of milk leaking out against the friction of my wet tongue. I worried the swollen peaks, pulling and biting lightly until he sobbed—a high, broken, shattering sound as a fresh trickle of white smeared across his chest. I scent-marked every inch of that damp skin, dragging my jaw across every curve that had once been displayed in this room for an audience that never once cherished him.
When I finally lined up against his dripping heat and drove inside, the entry was an unhurried, devastating stretch. I buried myself to the absolute root, my thick pelvic bone crashing hard against his hips, forcing a long, ragged gasp from his throat as his tight internal walls clamped around my thickness like a vice.
“You like this, don’t you?” I growled, my voice a low, feral vibration against the wet skin of his neck. “You like knowing he isn’t here to see you come apart? You like knowing you’re mine now, completely and filthily mine?”
“Yes,” he whimpered, his hips hitching desperately, his ankles locking behind my back to pull me deeper. “God, Gaspare—make me forget him. Make me forget every time I lay here and didn’t belong to myself.”
“I’m going to ruin you,” I promised, my teeth scraping the living, pulsing mark on his neck until the bond flared white-hot. “I’m going to fill you until you can’t remember anyone else’s touch. You’re my fucking sanctuary, Milo. My beautiful, pregnant, leaking sanctuary.”
I settled deeper into his heat, wrapping my calloused palms securely around the underside of his heavy belly, ensuring his frame was fully supported against the mattress as I began to drive into him. It was a steady, rhythmic brutality, a deep and relentless bottoming-out that had the headboard slamming against the wall.
The wet, frantic squelch of his nesting slick coated us both, dripping onto the sheets. The bond was a brilliant, screaming circuit of pure, carnal pleasure. I let my teeth graze his mark again, reasserting the claim, and drove harder, angling my hips to ruthlessly hammer his prostate on every single thrust.
“Come for me again,” I commanded. “Let me feel your body unraveling for me.”
Milo shattered beneath me, his inner muscles convulsing around my shaft in a painful, exquisite spasm as he came hands-free, thick heat spilling over his own stomach.
I didn’t pause. I didn’t grant him the mercy of a cooldown. The pregnancy had made his body hyper-sensitive, his nerve endings raw and desperate, and I kept the rhythm sharp, shallow, and punishing. When his cock began to soften, I wrapped my hand tightly around him, pumping him back into a painful ache, and drove back in hard and fast, with the singular purpose of an animal claiming its territory.
“Again,” I growled, my breath hitching as I felt his walls tighten in a second, frantic wave of contractions. “As many times as I want. Nobody is rationing you anymore, tesoro. You’re going to be so fucking ruined by the time I’m done, you won’t be able to stand.”
By the third time I brought him to the edge, he was babbling—his pleas a mixture of raw desperation, half-feral whimpers, and shattered need. My hand remained splayed over our son, protective, warm, and possessive, while my lower half pushed him further than anyone had ever dared. I reveled in the way he became entirely undone beneath me, remaking the room and the man within it as wholly, exclusively mine.
When my shaft shuddered and my knot finally began to crown, he was past speech. The base of my cock swelled aggressively, locking his body wide open, plugging him to the absolute brim with an intense, stretching pressure that forced a loud, ringing scream from his lungs.
I buried my face in his neck, pouring a massive, scalding torrent of alpha seed deep into his womb while his climax hit the bond like a physical blow. He was boneless, weeping, and laughing against the mattress—a beautiful, milk-damp, slick-soaked mess entirely fused to my weight.
“Red?” I murmured into the living mark, my voice shredded, the safety rule of our bond the only tether left to reality.
“Green,” he sobbed, his face buried in the velvet pillows, his grin feral, wet, and wide. “Green, you absolute fucking animal—green, Gaspare, green—”
The aftermath was a slow, agonizing descent into peace. I held him tightly as the knot slowly subsided, letting his body weep the excess of our heat onto the cloth. I cleaned him with a heated cloth, treating every inch of him as if he were made of gold, and wrapped his heavy, exhausted frame in a warm robe. I held the one unstrategic, irrational thing I’d allowed myself in a lifetime of survival, running the wooden beads of my rosary through my fingers—not in penance, but in sheer, bewildered thanks.
He drifted toward sleep against my chest—in the master bed, finally, with no ghosts left to haunt the shadows. I looked around the room I had once loathed, and I thought of the outcast I had been, spending my entire life clawing at the door, begging to be let in. I hadn’t realized that the door was a person. He had opened it himself, and there had never been a lock to begin with.
Somewhere in the distance, a phone vibrated against the wood of the nightstand. I reached out, flipped the silent switch, and dropped the device to the floor without ever glancing at the screen. The world could burn; I was exactly where I belonged.
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