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now all i do is wait for you

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He is, at his core, most comfortable with hatred.

Hating people is simple when you live like he’s lived. When you feel abandonment and then you witness the parents who’ve taken you in murdered. When you spend your childhood and youth with racial slurs and hard and sharp objects thrown at you. When you learn even in a famiglia that there are few people you can trust and many who’d rather see you dead; see you suffer.

People hate him for almost every or any part of who he is: a lawyer, a mafioso, a vengeful bastard, a handsome man. Korean. Italian. There is no shortage of reasons for people to dislike him.

It has not bothered him for years.

And if he is being honest with himself, his best coping mechanism for all the hatred has been sex. It's the one activity he allows himself that is driven solely by pleasure. It’s easy to know when you’re accomplishing a task that makes someone feel good and when you are not. He is terribly uninterested in sex that does not make him feel this sense of achievement. In particular, he could not care less to be with a woman who does not prioritize herself or who does not let him prioritize her.

Making a woman come is one of the purest forms of validation he’s yet to find. It’s like a drug. A reward for his efforts that does not end in blood or rivalry or retribution.

It is not lost on him that now that he knows how to love - knows he is capable of it and has found someone who is less interested in whether or not he’s deserving, but rather if he is brave enough to accept it - he has not yet had the opportunity to be with her in the way he’d told himself he’d best be able to demonstrate just how much he cares about her.

Their first time together had been careful and tender and gentle in a way that was…perfect. But it had also been rushed. He’d had a flight to catch, and yet when she’d asked him to come somewhere with him he hadn’t been able to say no. He knew what they were doing; they both went into it eyes wide open. They knew it would make the goodbye harder. And yet they'd gone together in that, too, had a precious 30 minutes. It certainly had not been enough time to do even a fraction of the things he’d wanted to do with her. To her.

The less flattering and more ruthless part of him is tempted to ruin her for anyone’s hands but his own, anyone’s kiss but his own.

He has very much been looking forward to the opportunity.

Now on his island, where he’s flown her to meet him, he feels maybe their nearly two and a half years of resistance and careful patience will come to a satisfying end.

He won’t lie and say that there was not also satisfaction in the first glimpse of her face when she arrived, or the way she smiled at him, the way she greeted him in Italian, the way she let him take her hand.

He has wanted to kiss her again for too long to either wait or to rush.

She asks him to stay in her room while she freshens up. Her bags sit by the dresser, her phone tossed onto the bed when she walked into the room. Vincenzo walks slowly around the room he scarcely allows himself to enter. He isn’t sure how a place can feel so much like a person when that person had never been there before, but he chalks that up to his good design and his knowledge of her and her tastes.

Cha Young steps out of the bathroom and her jeans and white tee shirt are a stark contrast to his slacks, vest, button down shirt and tie. She watches him a moment and then she smiles, and something in his chest rattles loose. Something that’s been lodged, tight and firm since the last time he saw her.

“I want to see your room,” she says, and all thoughts of not rushing escape him, because she is making her intentions clear. He wraps his fingers around his lighter in his pocket and gestures with his left arm for her to make her way to the door.

She’s about to turn left, so he wraps his hand around her elbow and guides her. “This way.”

The look she throws him over her shoulder is one he won’t soon forget.

He doesn’t even have the door closed before she’s slipping her fingers between the buttons of his vest and tugging him towards her. In all the time he’s known her, he’s had many, many thoughts about their heights and the way she tilts her face up towards his, angling for something. Begging. Tempting. Seeing her do it now, knowing he can just lean forward, claim her lips, it makes him nearly weak.

Until he puts his hands on her waist and she sinks into him at just his touch. His weakness ebbs away, replaced by something more familiar.

He knows what she wants and how badly. He wants to take his time.

“Kiss me,” she commands. Vincenzo shakes his head, but pulls her closer. “Why?”

He brings his hand up to her neck, his thumb sliding along the underside of her jaw. Satisfaction burns through him when he watches her eyes slip closed, her lips part in response to a fairly simple touch.

Daringly, he moves his thumb up to her mouth, drags it across her bottom lip. Her eyes then peer up at him as she opens wider, lets him slip his thumb into her mouth.


And then the look in her eye is positively wicked as she bites down just hard enough for him to have the impulse to pull away.

“You’re a tease,” she says, and pushes at him hard so they’re parted.

He…he doesn’t know what to do next.

Cha Young moves to his bed, sits down and crosses one leg over the other, leans back on her hands. She is just watching him. They are just watching each other.

It is thrilling, the way their game of tug of war translates to this, too.

He’s confident he’ll win. He wants to win. Maybe she’ll let him win.

“Undress,” she tells him, but the grin on her face tells him she is just testing, pushing, seeing if he’ll do as she asks.

Not like this.

He shakes his head again.

He quite liked the way they were pressed together moments ago. He’d like more of that. He stands in front of her, leans down, gets his hands on her thighs and lifts, pushes her back on the bed. Her eyes are dark when she looks up at him, when she parts her legs, when he stands back up and looks down at her.

“You make a pretty picture,” he tells her, and then his hand goes to his tie.

She watches, just as he knew she would. He pulls the knot free, slides the silk through his collar and tosses it on the bench that sits at the foot of his bed.

She says, “So do you,” but unlike the way he’s heard that before, people calling him pretty, he finds he likes it coming from this woman. The one who holds his heart firmly in the palm of her hand.

She moves again. He is very much not used to moves like the one he just pulled with her, where he maneuvered her where he wanted her, being ignored. But he also knows Cha Young to not give a damn about what she should do and instead just take.

She’s on her knees on the mattress, her arms over his shoulders, her hips aligned with his.

“Kiss me,” she tries again, and he waits. She places her fingers in his hair, tugs. “Vincenzo.” His eyes slip closed. Jesus. She’ll undo him with just the use of his name. “Give me what I want.”

He hesitates no longer. His hands pull her closer still, his mouth pressing against hers, and it is like he can breathe again. The relief of doing this, kissing her, like he’s dreamed of for months, it all comes out of him in the swipe of his tongue against her lip, the way she cushions his bottom lip between hers, the way she lets out a quiet sound of self-satisfaction when she pulls a groan from him.

She says, “Thank you,” and his cock twitches in his pants.

“What else would you like?” he asks, and Lord, he sounds as though he would do anything. Submit to her every whim just to hear her say those words again.

She grins, holds his face in her hands. He has never been anyone’s the way he is hers.

She says, “Everything,” and he would be a fool not to believe her.

“Where should I start?”

The smirk she gives, the way her eyes darken, the way her lipstick, smudged around the edges, can’t even make her look any less exquisite…

She understands. She is leaning into the dynamic he is so willingly allowing her to set.

“What was your plan?” He shakes his head. His plan was unraveled mere seconds after she entered his bedroom. Why should he reveal it now? Her thumb presses gently against the edge of his mouth. Turnabout. He swallows. She blinks. “Tell me how you expected to greet me.”

“On your back,” he says easily. Her mouth moves to his neck. One touch of her lips and he groans, tilts his head to the side, bares himself to her. “Undressed. My mouth…Cha Young-ah.”

“Your mouth?” She prompts him, her fingers working the buttons of his vest. He is malleable to her will. The only thing that keeps him from a full identity crisis is that she still reacts when his hands slip lower, when he grips her hips, when he presses his length against her body through their clothes. “What about your mouth?”

“Between your thighs.”

He feels like a school boy. Her hands move over his shoulders, pushing his vest down, and then he pushes her hands away and works the buttons of his shirt as she captures his lips again. She nips lightly, teasingly, at his bottom lip, then sucks gently, and he takes the bottom of her shirt in his hands.

She pushes them away.

“Stop this,” he says, and to his absolute horror, it sounds like he is whining.


If this is a game of chess, she is the king.

He pulls his shirt off. He never considered her to have more restraint or self control than he does. But he was wrong.

“Tell me more about your mouth.”

He cradles her head in his hand, leans in to speak into her ear. “Please. Let me show you.”

The way she lets out a heavy breath makes him feel as though he has some semblance of control again.

But he also feels very much as though that, too, is only because she has allowed it.

“Lie back,” he tells her, and she does. She moves right up to the head of the bed, looking thoroughly adorable as she situates herself against the pillows. It’s a shame he’s going to make her move. “Clothes off.”

She blinks, a brow raised, like she’s impressed he’s bounced back like this and is making commands.

But she also says, “Help.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He joins her, gets distracted from her ask when for just the second time ever he lies atop her. Even in their clothes she feels wonderful, her knees bending to bracket him, her warm hands up his back. He kisses her until she is arching against him, and only then does he slip his hand beneath her shirt. When he pulls back to take it off, reveals her flawless skin and a thin bra that looks more comfortable than the last he saw her in, he swallows, and his hand moves up her thigh.

“This time it’s been too long,” he says, sweeps his lips across the dip of her collarbone. She lets out a small mewl he immediately recalls a memory of from last time. “How did we manage a year?”

“Yearning.” He’s sure that’s meant to be a joke, but it doesn’t feel like one. “Now I know what it’s like to have you, and I…” His hips press against hers almost unwillingly. Her talking about having him is… “Vincenzo.”

“You what?” he prompts, but he is also kissing his way down her body, watching her as he does so. Her head is back, chest rising and falling heavily in anticipation. He wants to sear this image in his mind to hold after she leaves again.

She says, “I want to stay,” which is both a confession of the truth and a thing that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

He moves back up to her lips, kisses her delicately. He says the words he’s been thinking far longer than he’s even been able to admit to himself.

“I love you.”

Her eyes finally open, her fingers threading into his hair, her hips tilting upward to meet his.

“I love you,” she echoes. Grins. “You fool.”

He is not sure where the teasing has come from, but he’s sure he deserves it somehow.

Their kisses turn languid, almost lazy. He pulls her bra over her head, delights in the way she arches against him as his hand presses against her breast, his fingers thrum against her nipple.

It is barely past noon and he knows that unless she doesn’t wish to, he will spend the rest of the day doing this with her. Taking his time. Pulling her to the brink and coaxing her over.

“Your mouth,” she says against his ear. “You promised.”

He’s not sure that statement is true, that any promise had been made, but now is not the time to argue. Perhaps later he’ll want to tease her more. Have her beg. Have her a desperate mess against his sheets.

Now, he wants what she wants and refuses to deny them both the pleasure of it.

He pulls her jeans and underwear down her legs, takes a steadying breath at the sight of her like this, laid out naked before him, for him. She is watching him, too, and she smiles, as though she knows exactly the thoughts in his mind. About how many nights he’s imagined this, her, them together here. Even when he’s just thought of her sleeping next to him, her body a pleasant warmth beneath the duvet.

He would like to know what to say. He does not.

But he certainly knows what to do.

She parts her thighs and he abandons his plan to slowly make his way up her legs. Instead, he simply slides his hands up her calves, over her thighs. The rest on her hips and he moves his face inches away from where she is so, so wet for him.

He feels heat surge to his cock as she moves towards him in anticipation. He was a fool to leave his pants on. But they have now what they’ve never had, which is the luxury of time.

And so he licks a delicate stripe up her cunt and allows his eyes to close at the taste of her, the feel of her.

And then he hears her say, “Good,” and he moans right into her and is encouraged to do it again. To do it more. To flatten his tongue right there against the spot that makes her hand clutch the duvet. She lets out a sharp sound as he works, as he tastes, as he revels.

She is as soft and perfect and fucking delicious as he’s imagined. Except so much better because she is real. She’s here, skin burning under his hands and against his mouth. His chin slick with her arousal and her breaths and whimpers echoing in the room.

Her hips cant when he focuses his tongue where it elicits the strongest reaction. These cues and clues that she wants him in this exact spot. Her hand goes into his hair and he couldn’t give a damn about how hard she tugs to keep his mouth pressed against her.

She is attempting to say his name. It comes out in shattered syllables, never entirely whole.

He watches as she comes apart, the subtle arch of her back, the movement of her hips against his mouth as he coaxes her through it, the flush of her skin when he finally allows himself to pull away. Her eyes are closed as she catches her breath. He moves carefully from his place, touches her thigh, presses gently so she may close her legs, and then lies alongside her. He wipes his chin with the heel of his palm, then rests his hand against her.

“A very good welcome,” she says, grinning, and then opens her eyes to him.

“If you keep telling me how good I am, we may never leave this room.”

Her smile widens, and she looks like she knows what she is doing and his confirming his enjoyment of it was absolutely unnecessary. He swallows thickly when she leans up on her side, pushing him onto his back, then slings one leg over him.

“That sounds nice,” she says, and her centre is warm and slick against his stomach. He wants to be inside her. He opens his mouth to say so, but… “Staying in here.” She shifts again. Fucking torturous woman. She leans down, completely unbothered with how her hair falls in his face and he moves it gently. “Naked. Complimenting one another.”

“Darling.” He presses up, but it does nothing to relieve the pressure he’s feeling. “Undress me.”

Her answering expression is triumphant. It’s familiar. He has to ignore it, close his eyes. He also cannot bear to watch her undo his pants and slide them down his legs.

Which ends up being a terrible mistake, as then he’s also not prepared when she presses her wetness right along the length of him and whimpers at the way they slide together. His hands grip her thighs and he clenches his jaw.

“You’re enjoying the power.”

She leans down, which feels…fuck, he is going to lose himself in this woman entirely, isn’t he?

She kisses him quite sweetly, which is a fascinating contrast to her bare chest pressed against his, her hot centre teasing him in a way he loves and hates in equal measure.

“Isn’t this what you taught me?” she asks, and he does not believe that’s actually true, but it feels like a good moment to take the credit if the payoff for it is this.

She shifts just so, and then he is slipping into her at just the pace she wants, and Vincenzo says a version of her name and a curse in some language or another. She moves again, sits up, and god, if she made a pretty picture before, she is a fucking masterpiece now.

Her nails leave half moons on his chest as she slowly moves her hips back and forth. He likes the pain of it mixed with the nearly unfathomable pleasure of how it feels to be inside her.

He lets her have her fun, stay on top of him, grind her body down against his. Her breath gets shallow and she is not nearly being as loud as she could be. As loud as he knows her to be. Not that he minds this, either. How could he? The press of his length inside her, the way she closes her eyes, how her hair moves around her, it is all so perfect.

She leans down to kiss him, and his hand moves between her shoulder blades. Her skin is tacky with sweat and Vincenzo finds there is more to love in that, too. He takes advantage of their position and presses up into her, flips them. There is her voice, her loud moan right into his ear. And then her teeth tugging at the lobe.

Her hair is a wild halo, her cheeks flush and lips parted. Her hands are on his back, on his side, on his hip. And she is everywhere. All he can see and perceive and think about. Her perfume filling his senses as much as anything else. He buries himself in her. His cock in her warm, wet pussy and his face in her neck. And she takes it. Takes him. Welcomes him.

Wants him.

“Don’t come,” she says into his ear as he palms her thigh, bends it so he can sink deeper. He groans. “Promise.”


She lets out a cry at just the word. He was not wrong about the power. She enjoys it. And if he is being absolutely honest with himself, she is the only one he wants to share it with, relinquish it to.

Her heel digs into the small of his back and he knows he is fighting a losing battle. He wraps his fingers around her ankle, tugs her leg away from him and pulls out. They both miss the sensation, he can tell, and then he realizes he’s been left with no instruction on what to do next. She wants something from him and has yet to inform him or ask for it.

It will be hers. Whatever her request.

“Don’t touch,” she says, and though he does not know whether she means himself or her, his hands remain still, pressing into the mattress on either side of her.

Her pretty little hand reaches between them, wraps around him, strokes. It slides so easily and he knows he is not speaking Korean when he talks, but the satisfied look on her face lets him know she does not mind. She likes that, too - short circuiting the part of his brain responsible for intelligent comment.

“May I touch you now?” he asks, assuming correctly that this is Cha Young’s playground and he is merely a lucky participant of her choosing.


“Cha Young-ah.” Her wrist twists and he drops his head to her chest.

“You first,” she purrs, lips pressed to his hairline, and he will have to pray later to whatever god has allowed him the affection of a woman like her.

“I’m yours,” he says, which feels like too much, far too much, even if it is true.

She slides her fist, swipes her thumb.

She says, “Good boy,” and he feels himself come undone at her words, his orgasm surging as he spills himself against her hand, her thigh, whatever else, and her fingers move into his hair and gently move against his scalp as he loses himself.

Once he’s regained control of his faculties, he presses upward so he can look at her.

He is not embarrassed by his undoing at her words.

He knows this about himself. He’s had this fear since his childhood that things happen to him because he is bad. He must be bad or he would have an easier time. All he wants - all he’s wanted - is to be seen as worthy and kind and good.

Years of therapy have not been able to fill him with as much positive emotion as the words coming from his love’s mouth. Because he knows she was not just caught up in the moment and working to get him off. She means them. She knows he is not made up of darkness and brutality. She sees the kindness in him. He’s shown her.

She thinks he is gentle.

Without asking this time, he brings his hand between her thighs, and after she has parted them in anticipation, he presses his fingers into her, drags his thumb over her clit. It makes her whine.

And this is the thing, isn’t it? If she knows him this well, he knows her well, too.

He knows what she wants. What she desires. And aside from power, she wishes to feel precious, delicate, loved.

“Mia amata,” he says, and she laughs, a heavy, loaded thing that lets him know his previous thought was true; she likes to hear him like this. “You are so…” He can’t think of the word in Korean. He abandons it. “Dolce metà.”

She reaches for his wrist as she lets go, clenches around his fingers. She holds him tightly, and the low moan that escapes her throat is one he certainly intends to hear again as soon as possible. Her hand moves to her own hair, pushes it up atop her head even as she lies back against his pillows. Then she wiggles her hips and he pulls away, lies down next to her, stares at the ceiling with her.

“Italian is nonsense,” she says, and he laughs, warm, low, and satisfied.

“I don’t think you can pretend to believe that at this point.” He leans over, moves onto his side and presses his lips against her shoulder.

“Says the supposed villain,” she mutters and it makes him blush. She, of course, notices his reaction. He is not shy or ashamed of what makes him feel good in the bedroom.

He just thought he was more difficult to read than that.

“This feels like a dangerous game,” he comments, gathering her closer, smoothing his hand over her hair as she settles in against his chest.

“Games are fun, and I like danger.”

That makes him smile. His eyes are heavy. He closes them, feels her inhale deeply and let it out.

When he awakes, she’s pulled a blanket over them and is also gently running her hand over his hip. He looks at her, then her hand moves, and she is saying something about her mouth, too, and yes, yes, now is when he prays to a god or all of them. He is gathering her hair in his hands and knowing she must be right about him being good because otherwise how would he have ever been in such a position to have…

She blinks up at him. “If you hold back, I’ll stop.”


“Yes, my love. Please. I’ll…”