Chapter 4: Wedding Night (Luca's POV)

Chapter 4: Wedding Night (Luca's POV)

The penthouse felt like a goddamn tomb when we stepped inside. Too big, too empty, too full of whatever the hell this was between us. I shrugged off my jacket, letting it hit the chair with a soft thud, and yanked at my tie. Anything to loosen the noose around my neck. I poured a scotch—straight, no bullshit—and downed half of it in one go. The burn helped. A little.

Alessio stood by the windows, turning that new ring on his finger like it was a puzzle he could solve. Or a lock he could pick. He looked untouchable in that gray suit, sharp and beautiful in a way that pissed me off. Made my gut twist with something I’d spent years ignoring. Burying.

I didn’t offer him a drink. Didn’t know how to start that conversation. What was I supposed to say? *Welcome home, husband?*

He poured his own anyway. Bold as ever. Sipped it slow, eyes flicking to me over the rim.

“Celebrating?” I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I meant.

“Commemorating,” he shot back. “Big difference.”

I almost smirked. Almost. He had fire, I’d give him that. More than most men I’d broken.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” I said, changing the subject. “My mother’s orders. Wedding tradition.”

His brow arched, that defiant look that made me want to pin him down. “Your mother thinks we’re going to sit down like a normal couple and eat lasagna?”

“She thinks we should at least pretend.”

He laughed—sharp, mocking. “How very Italian of her.”

I drained my glass, set it down hard. The silence stretched, pulling tight like a wire about to snap.

He set his glass aside too. “So. Wedding night. Do I get escorted to my cage now, or do we keep pretending a little longer?”

That did it. The wire broke.

I crossed the room in three strides, backing him against the glass. His back hit the window with a soft thump, the city lights framing him like some twisted halo. I planted one hand beside his head, caging him in. Up close, he smelled like clean soap and that faint citrus cologne—fresh, tempting.

“You want to push me?” I murmured, my voice low. Dangerous. “Keep talking like that.”

He tilted his chin up, eyes glittering. “What happens if I do?”

My gaze dropped to his mouth. Full, smirking. I’d kissed him at the courthouse to shut him up, to claim what was mine now. But it had backfired. Left me hard and aching, thoughts I couldn’t afford racing through my head.

“You’re my husband,” I said, leaning in close enough to feel his breath. “That means something. Even if you hate it.”

“Does it mean anything to you?” he challenged. “Or am I just the truce you had to swallow?”

My hand moved before I could stop it—to his throat. Not hard. Just enough to feel his pulse racing under my thumb. Fast, like mine. “You’re a lot of things. Truce. Complication. Pain in my ass.” I pressed lightly, watching his eyes darken. “But you’re mine tonight.”

His breath hitched. I felt it. Saw the heat flare in those gray eyes.

“And tomorrow?” he pushed.

“Tomorrow too.”

I kissed him then. Slower this time. Deeper. Not the brutal claim from earlier. This was me testing the waters—tasting him, tongue sliding in to explore. He tasted like scotch and defiance. His hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer.

Fuck. This was wrong. I’d spent my life shoving this down—women in my bed when the family expected it, quick and meaningless. Never this. Never a man. Never someone who looked at me like he could see right through the armor.

But Alessio kissed back like he owned me, nipping at my lip, making me growl.

“Bedroom,” I ordered, pulling back just enough. “Now.”

He laughed, breathless. “Make me.”

Challenge accepted.

I hooked an arm under his thighs, the other around his back, and lifted him. Easy. His legs wrapped around my waist on instinct, and I carried him down the hall, kicking the master door open. No lights. Didn’t need them.

I dropped him on the bed, following him down, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. He arched up against me, testing my hold. I tightened it.

“Look at you,” I growled, my free hand trailing down his chest. “Fighting me even now.”

His eyes flashed—defiant, hungry. He was comfortable with this. Too comfortable. Like he’d done it a hundred times, no shame, no hesitation.

Me? My mind screamed at me to stop. This wasn’t who I was. Rossi heir. Killer. Not… this.

But my body didn’t listen. I leaned down, lips to his ear. “You’re doing so well. Taking this. Taking me.”

He froze under me, a sharp inhale. His body shuddered—hard.

Fuck. He liked that. Praise. It hit him like a drug.

“Don’t—” he started, but I cut him off, thumb brushing his cheek.

“You like that.”

He glared, cheeks flushing, but he didn’t deny it. Just turned his head away, jaw clenched.

I released his wrists, stripping off his jacket, tie, shirt—buttons popping in my haste. Then mine. Skin to skin, his chest smooth and warm against my inked one. I sucked a mark on his neck, right below the collar line. Possessive. Mine.

“Good,” I whispered against the bruise. “So fucking good for me.”

He shuddered again, hands clawing at my shoulders, pulling me down. “Luca…”

Hearing my name like that—breathless, needy—cracked something in me. I kissed lower, over his chest, tasting salt and skin. My hands roamed, unbuckling his belt, shoving his pants down. He was hard, straining against his boxers.

I hesitated. Stared. This was the line. Cross it, and there was no going back.

Alessio noticed. Smirked through his haze. “Struggling, husband?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it.

He laughed softly, then shifted—bold, maniacal, like he thrived on this. His hands went to my belt, undoing it with practiced ease. Before I could process, he’d shoved my pants down, freeing me.

I hissed at the cool air, then at his touch—firm, stroking.

“Alessio—”

He didn’t let me finish. Pushed me onto my back, straddling my hips. His eyes locked on mine, gray storms full of challenge. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Then he slid down, mouth hot and wet, taking me in without hesitation.

Fuck.

My hand flew to his hair, gripping hard. The sensation—velvet heat, tongue swirling—shorted out my brain. I’d had blowjobs before, from women, but this… this was different. Intense. No games, just raw skill.

He was a maniac, alright. No shame, humming around me like he loved it. Bobbing, sucking, one hand stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach.

I groaned, hips bucking involuntarily. “Alessio… shit…”

He pulled off just enough to look up, lips swollen, eyes gleaming. “Good boy,” he teased, throwing my praise back at me.

That snapped me out of it—a flash of anger, mixed with the building heat. I yanked him up by the hair, flipping us so I was on top again. “Not your turn to talk.”

But he’d already won. My resolve cracked. I kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue, hands everywhere—stroking him now, rough and fast, until he arched and gasped.

We didn’t go further. I couldn’t. Not yet. The war in my head raged—wanting more, hating myself for it.

But as we ground against each other, hands and mouths pushing us both over the edge, sticky and spent, I knew one thing.

This wasn’t over.

By dawn, tangled in sheets, my hand on his back, I stared at the ceiling.

What the fuck had I done?

And why did I want more?.