Twisted Emotions (The Camorra Chronicles 2)

“This position okay for you?” he rasped against my ear as his next stroke hit me even deeper.

“Yes,” I gasped.

Nino’s closeness, his warm embrace, his soft kisses along my shoulder blade … they made this perfect. Nino cupped my breast, fingers tweaking my nipple as his other hand worked nimbly between my legs. He slammed into me over and over again, slow, precise strokes that curled my toes and made my eyes roll back with pleasure.

It was beautiful and breathtaking, and I let myself fall completely. I trusted Nino without reservation to guide me over the edge, to take care of me, and he did.

I tightened as my release hit me, and I cried out Nino’s name. He rasped mine into my ear, the word almost desperate as he spilled inside me moments after my orgasm. He didn’t pull back, holding me closely against his body, still buried deep inside of me.

He eased out of me, and I turned in his embrace. I lightly traced the skin around the cut in his cheekbone then the blooming bruises over his ribs. He tensed under my touch.

“Sorry,” I breathed. “Are you in a lot of pain? Clearly, I have nothing better to do than to rub myself against you when you’re bruised.”

He tangled his hand in my curls, regarding me with an unreadable expression. “I was the one who initiated sex, Kiara. I wanted you. I…” He trailed off, brows pulling together “…I’ve survived many fights. I’ll be healed in a few days.”

I didn’t say anything, only snuggled against Nino’s chest, careful not to apply pressure to his ribs. I kissed his shoulder blade, and uttered in my head the words I’d never say aloud again. I love you.

A low noise I couldn’t place tore me from sleep. Even with Nino beside me, I was a light sleeper, quick to wake from the slightest noise. I stared into the dark and there it was again: a throaty sound full of dark despair. What was that?

A wave of fear shot through me when a familiar tone caught my attention.

Nino? Was that Nino?

The sound stirred memories within me, but I pushed them aside and rolled over. In the dark, I couldn’t make out more than the outline of Nino’s back, but the bed was shaking from the force of his body tremors.

“Nino?” I whispered, but my voice was so hesitant and quiet I could barely hear it.

My first instinct was that it had to be a seizure, something physical because it seemed impossible that emotions forced these sounds out of Nino. These throaty inhales—not moans, not gasps, but something in between—were full of emotion. I didn’t understand. Slowly, I sat up, unsure if I should wake him, completely at loss what to do. Nino was always in control. He was control.

Reached over to my bedside, I turned on the light, needing to see him and at the same time terrified of it. Nino was lying on his side, shaking, one hand curled around the edge of the bed, clutching it tightly; his brows formed one hard line and his forehead was covered in sweat.

My fingers shook as I reached for him. My God, what was going on with him?

The second my fingertips brushed his shoulder, his eyes flew open and the look in them made me recoil. Nino lunged for the knife on his bedside table, clutching it in his hand as he staggered out of bed. His gaze pinged around the room then settled on me, the way I was pressed up against the headboard in confusion and fear. His legs gave out. Pressing the knife to his chest, he bent forward, braced against the ground with one arm, heaving deep breaths.

“Nino?” I whispered, crawling to the edge of the bed.

Nino said he wasn’t capable of emotions, that he couldn’t feel, but in his eyes and on his face was pure unbridled emotion. And he couldn’t handle it, didn’t know how. Maybe this was the first time in a long time that he was submitted to something like that.

His back was heaving, arms shaking, and somehow in the diffused glow of the bedside lamp, his tattoos seemed to come alive, the inked flames leaping up, the contorted faces mocking yet agonizing at the same time.

My throat clogged with emotion, helpless and terrified and worried that this was it, that something had snapped Nino’s sanity—whatever was left of it. My love for him didn’t make me blind to the truth: the Nino and Remo both were messed up in a way that couldn’t be resolved with a few pills and countless sessions with a shrink. Something awful had twisted them into what they were today, twisted Nino’s emotions into a tight knot. Something had managed to untie it. Seeing him like this made me think that maybe there had been a good reason why his mind and body had tied that knot in the first place.