Her Bookstore, Finally Opened

CATALINA'S PERSPECTIVE

The door creaked behind me, a low groan of old wood that sliced through the quiet. I didn’t turn.

Not yet.

I sat cross-legged on the worn rug, an ancient poetry book splayed open in my lap, its pages yellowed and crisp.

A breeze slipped through the half-open window, carrying the musk of rain-soaked streets and mingling with the bookstore’s scent, fresh paper, old ink, and the faint vanilla of aging bindings. I’d spent the morning sorting new arrivals, stacking them on the creaky shelves that lined my tiny upstairs haven.

My heart was steady, full, like the stillness after a long day. For once, everything felt like mine.

Then the air shifted.

A hum, electric and heavy, buzzed under my skin. Footsteps thumped on the narrow wooden stairs, deliberate but not rushed. I knew who it was before I looked.

Dante.

He didn’t knock. The doorframe groaned as he filled it, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides. I glanced up, catching his eyes scanning the room, my room.

The slanted ceiling forced him to duck slightly, his dark hair grazing the low beam. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching under the stubble.

“This is it?” His voice wasn’t cruel, just laced with that confused edge he got when things didn’t fit his world.

I closed the book with a soft thud, fingers lingering on its leather spine, and set it on the rug.

“It’s perfect,” I said, voice calm but firm.

He stepped inside, his shoes scuffing the floorboards, eyes narrowing as he took in the cramped walls.

“It’s not.” Blunt, like always. “This looks like a damn storage attic, Catalina.”

A faint smile tugged at my lips. I unfolded my legs and rose, the rug soft under my bare feet. “It’s my attic, then.”

He turned to the window, exhaling sharply, his leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms.

“I could build you something better. A real shop. Ground floor. Space to breathe. A proper office, not this-” He gestured at the bed, the desk, the low ceiling that made him stoop. “This isn’t right.”

“It’s what I wanted.” My voice stayed steady, cutting through his frustration.

He spun back to face me, eyes dark and stormy. “You deserve more than this.”

There it was. That tone. That raw, unspoken need to fix what he thought was broken. It wasn’t about the shop, it was about me. About us.

“It’s not about what I deserve,” I said, softer now, stepping closer. “It’s about what’s mine.”

His jaw clenched, the silence between us swelling, thick and loud. He hated being told no, even when it came in whispers. But I wasn’t backing down. Not today.

I moved toward him, slow, deliberate, my bare feet silent on the wood. His eyes tracked me, arms tense at his sides, conflict flickering behind that hard gaze.

I stopped inches from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

Before he could speak, I pressed my hand to his chest. His heart thudded under my palm, steady but fast. I pushed, guiding him back.

He didn’t resist, just let me lead, his brows knitting as his boots scuffed backward. The bed creaked when his weight hit it, the frame protesting as he sat.

I climbed onto his lap, slow, straddling his thighs in this too-small room he couldn’t stand. His hands found my waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel possessive. His breath hitched, tight and shallow.

“What are you doing?” he muttered, voice rough, like gravel under tires.

My fingers slid up his shirt, tracing the hard ridges of his stomach, warm skin taut under my touch.

“Showing you why I don’t need anything else.”

He groaned, low and guttural, as my lips brushed his neck, grazing the pulse that jumped under his skin. He smelled like smoke, leather, and something sharper, power, coiled tight, ready to snap.

My mouth lingered, tasting salt and heat, my teeth grazing just enough to make him tense.

“Catalina-” His voice broke, a warning that didn’t land.

I kissed him. Hard. Deep. No hesitation.

My lips claimed his, and his mouth parted, letting me in. I swallowed his protests, my tongue sliding against his, tasting the faint burn of whiskey he’d had earlier. His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer.

I moved with purpose, grinding against him, feeling him harden through the denim. My hands roamed, greedy, tracing the planes of his chest, the dip of his collarbone, the corded muscle of his arms. He was solid, real, mine in this moment.

I didn’t rush, didn’t tease, just let my fingers map him like he was already part of me.

His grip turned needy, fingers digging into my hips, urging me closer.

“Fuck-” he breathed, voice raw, eyes locked on mine.

I shifted, guiding him to unbutton my jeans, then his, the sound of zippers sharp in the quiet room. I lifted just enough to slide my pants down, kicking them aside, then tugged his down enough to free him.

His cock was hard, hot in my hand, and I hissed through my teeth at the feel of him, the stretch as I guided him into my wet folds, slow and deliberate.

His head fell back, a low curse escaping as I sank onto him, inch by inch, my body adjusting to his size. The fullness stole my breath, a sharp edge of pleasure that made my thighs tremble. I rocked gently, holding his gaze, my hands braced on his shoulders.

“You feel that?” I whispered, voice low, steady.

He didn’t answer, just cursed again, breathless, his hands gripping my thighs like he was holding on for dear life.

I leaned in, nose brushing his, my breath hot against his lips. “This place is enough. I am enough.”

His fingers dug harder, not painful, just desperate, sliding up my back, fisting my shirt.

I moved deeper, slower, every roll of my hips deliberate, letting him feel every inch of me.

His groans filled the room, raw and unfiltered, his eyes locked on mine, watching me claim him. No rush, no chaos, just heat, control, and the slow build of something undeniable.

“Fuck, Catalina-” His voice was a rasp, hands clutching me like he didn’t know what hit him. I smiled, slow and dark, letting the softness in my eyes hide the edge.

“Stay,” I whispered, though he wasn’t going anywhere.

He cummed hard, a growl tearing from his throat, his face buried against my neck, holding me like I was his anchor.

I kept moving, chasing my own release, until the heat broke over me, sharp and shuddering, my fingers digging into his shoulders as I rode it out.

We stayed tangled, breath mingling, sweat cooling on our skin.

The silence was soft now, comfortable. He didn’t speak. Neither did I.

Today, I wasn’t just a wife with scars.

I was Catalina.

And he was mine.