The air was thick with the heat of Havana, but the fire between your bare bodies hadn’t faded — it had just gone quiet for a moment, pulsing slow under your skin like an ember waiting to reignite.

The sheets were twisted beneath you, damp and clinging to your legs. Your skin still tingled from where he’d touched you, held you — claimed you. Your body hummed with the echo of it, sore in the best way, filled and undone. You lay on your stomach, cheek pressed to the mattress, your breath just starting to even out again.

Bruno’s hand was heavy across the small of your back, not just resting — owning. His fingers spread across your spine like he was keeping you there, keeping you his.

He was quiet behind you, but not distant — never that. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking every slow breath you took, every soft shift of your body. The room was lit only by candlelight, flames flickering across the dark wood and the gold of your skin. Outside, the sea murmured and the city whispered, but inside this room, he was everything.

“You look like sin right now,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel and low against your ear as he leaned over you. “Like something I shouldn’t touch.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his — and that look he gave you… God, it hit low. Fierce. Possessive.

“But I already did,” he added, fingers dragging slowly down your back. “Again. And again. And again.”

You let out a shaky breath, still too soft from before to respond. Your body was still humming with the aftershock, but he wasn’t done. You could feel it — not in lust, exactly, but in ownership. This wasn’t casual. This was his. You were.

He leaned closer, breath warm against your ear, hand sliding up to wrap gently — but firmly — around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he whispered. “After I’ve had you like that?”

You whimpered, not from fear — from the weight of it. The gravity of how much he wanted you. How deeply he’d carved himself into your soul. Your body.

“I married you for life,” he said, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You don’t walk away from that. From me.”

His other hand slid under your stomach, pulling you back against him until your spine curved into him, your bodies molding together again. The warmth of his breath, the strength of his grip, the cold chain of his metal necklace dangling onto your skin, and the sheer presence of him made you melt all over again.

You whispered his name — barely — and his grip on your hip tightened.

“Say it louder,” he said, rough, possessive, almost a growl.

“Bruno…”

He kissed the back of your shoulder like a mark, a seal. “That’s right,” he murmured. “Mine.”

And in that dark Havana room, tangled in candlelight and his arms, you weren’t just loved — you were owned. Body. Soul. Name.

And you wouldn’t want it any other way.. neither did he.