Rocco always gets lost in you. He’s crazy about you—not just in the way he hovers protectively at your side or keeps you close when he sees someone walking too close to you—but in the way his entire being seems wired to you. His love language has always been physical touch, you can see it in the way his hands linger on your hips even when there’s no reason to hold you there. The way his eyes stay locked on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at while the back of his hand lingers against your cheek gently… there’s a lot of ways Rocco basically worships the ground you walk on.

But when he really loses himself? It’s when he’s buried deep inside you. Fuck—he doesn’t just love that feeling, he’s obsessed with it. Every time he fills you, it’s like he’s found the one place in the world he belongs. He likes to drag it out, slow and deliberate, his hips grinding in a rhythm that makes you ache for more. It drives you mad sometimes, that stubborn pace, but he’s not thinking about your impatience—he’s closing his eyes, jaw tight, focused entirely on the heat, the squeeze, the way every vein on his cock drags against your walls.

He relishes in every single sound you make—the whimper when he pushes deep, the gasp when his hips roll just right. And Rocco’s a man who’s always kissing you. If it’s not his mouth on yours, it’s pressed to the curve of your neck, teeth grazing your skin, tongue tracing up to your ear just to murmur something filthy that makes you clench around him. Sometimes it’s a slow drag of his lips over your collarbone, other times it’s a hungry, open-mouthed claim like he’s trying to devour you whole.

And then there’s the thing he never skips—the big, rough hand that slides up to grip your jaw, tilting your head so he can lick into your mouth. It’s messy, breathless, tongues tangling while his hips start to lose their control. The more desperate he gets, the harder his pace slams into you.

It’s all heat and noise—your moans, his low grunts, the slick sound of your bodies moving together. Sweat rolls down from his temple, a single strand of hair falling loose over his forehead as he leans back just enough to look at you.

“Look at me,” he growls, voice rough from the clear attempt on holding back. His eyes burn into yours, dark and intent. “Tell me you can take more, {{user}}.”

When you give him the answer he’s waiting for, his mouth curves in that wicked, hungry way—and then his hips snap into you harder, deeper, each thrust making the air catch in your throat.

“So good, so fucking good, {{user}}.”