Chapter 3: I caught Luca fucking a girl

Emma’s POV

Few months ago, I came over for a sleep over at Hannah’s

The house was dark and quiet. I heard the low murmur of a voice.

Not Hannah’s.

A woman’s laugh, soft and throaty, drifted up from the kitchen. I paused on the last step, my hand frozen on the cool banister. I just wanted water. That’s all. My throat was parched from the popcorn.

Then I heard him. Luca.

A low, rough sound. Not words. A groan.

My breath hitched. I shouldn’t be here. I should turn around. But my feet, bare on the wooden floor, carried me forward, silent, until I could see into the dimly lit kitchen through the archway.

The fridge light was on, casting a cold, blue-white glow over them.

Luca, Hannah’s older brother, was pressed against the kitchen cabinet. And she was pressed against him. A woman with dark, wild curls, her back to me. Her dress was a slip of black silk, hiked up around her thighs. Luca’s hands were on her hips, his fingers digging into the fabric, into her skin. His head was bent, his mouth on her neck.

She arched into him, a serpentine twist of her spine. “You taste like trouble,” she purred, her voice like smoke.

He didn’t answer. His hands moved, one sliding around to cup her ass, pulling her tighter against him. I could see the hard line of his erection straining against his jeans, pressed right into the cradle of her thighs. She ground against him, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, and he let out another one of those gut-deep groans.

My own body went very still. My heart was a trapped bird against my ribs.

Luca’s hand came up, tangled in her hair, and pulled her head back. He kissed her. Not a sweet kiss. It was hungry. All tongue and teeth and desperate, wet sounds. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, his t-shirt stretching under her grip. The kiss broke, and she was panting, her lips swollen and dark.

“Right here,” she whispered, her voice urgent. “Now, Luca. I can’t wait.”

He spun her around, his movements rough, efficient. He bent her over the cold tiles of the cabinet. Her palms slapped against the surface. The black silk dress was pushed up, bunched around her waist, and I saw she wore nothing underneath. The curve of her ass was pale in the fridge light. Luca’s hands smoothed over it, possessive, before he fumbled with his belt.

The buckle clinked. The zip was loud in the silent house. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough. And then he was there, his body covering hers, one hand braced next to her head, the other guiding himself.

I saw his dick. Thick. Veined. Angry and ready.

He pushed into her with one hard, deep stroke.

She cried out, a sharp, choked sound that was instantly muffled as she buried her face in her arm. Luca didn’t stop. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm immediately. The kitchen filled with the sounds of it: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, his ragged breaths, her little gasping moans with every thrust.

My mouth was dry. My earlier thirst was forgotten, replaced by a different, deeper ache. I felt it, a hot, sudden pulse between my own legs. A traitorous, slick warmth I had no right to feel. I was glued to the shadow of the hallway, my fingers digging into the wall.

Luca fucked her like he was angry at her. Or maybe like he was starving. His hips pistoned, driving into her again and again. He grabbed a handful of her hair, not gently, and pulled her head back, exposing her throat. He bit the curve of her shoulder, and she whimpered, pushing her ass back against him, meeting every thrust.

“Yes… god, right there,” she moaned, her voice breaking. “Harder.”

He obliged. The island creaked. A glass on the counter rattled. His body was a study in tense, coiled power—the muscles in his back and shoulders bunched and moving under his thin t-shirt. Sweat darkened the fabric between his shoulder blades.

I was wet. Soaking, actually. My cotton sleep shorts felt damp, clinging to me. I pressed my thighs together, but the pressure only made it worse, only made me more aware of the empty, aching throb inside me. I was watching a stranger get railed over a kitchen counter by my best friend’s brother, and my body was lighting up like a festival.

She reached a hand back, gripping his thigh, her nails biting in. “I’m close… don’t stop…”

Luca’s pace turned frantic, brutal. His breathing was a harsh rasp. He drove into her, deep, his body slamming against hers. He let go of her hair, wrapped both arms around her waist, holding her so tightly as he buried himself to the hilt and shuddered. A raw, guttural sound was torn from his throat.

She came then, her body clenching around him, her own cry a high, sharp thing she bit off into her own arm. He held her there, pulsing inside her, for three long, endless seconds before his strength seemed to leave him. He slumped over her back, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his chest heaving.

The silence afterward was heavy, broken only by their panting.

Slowly, he pulled out. I saw the glisten on him before he turned slightly, tucking himself away. The woman stayed bent over the counter for a moment, catching her breath. Then she straightened, smoothing her dress down. She turned, a slow, satisfied smile on her face.

And she saw me.

Her eyes, dark and knowing, locked with mine across the dim space. The smile didn’t fade; it deepened, turning smug. She looked me up and down—my oversized t-shirt, my bare legs, my undoubtedly flushed face. She didn’t look surprised. She looked… victorious.

She turned back to Luca, who was still catching his breath, leaning against the counter. She reached up, cupped his jaw, and pulled him down for a slow, dirty kiss. When she pulled away, her lipstick—a deep, bloody red—was smeared around his mouth.

“You’re a mess, baby,” she murmured, her thumb swiping at the corner of his lips. Then she leaned in, pressed her lips to the collar of his white t-shirt, leaving a perfect, blatant kiss mark. A brand.

She picked up a small clutch from the counter, gave me one last, lingering look, and walked right past me towards the front door. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and something musky, sexual—hung in the air as she passed. The front door opened and shut with a soft, final click.

Luca finally straightened up. He ran a hand through his dark, messy hair. He looked wrecked and beautiful. And then he turned his head.

His eyes found me in the shadows.

Everything stopped. The air vanished from my lungs. He didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look guilty. His gaze was heavy, intense, burning through the darkness. He looked at me like he’d known I was there the whole time. He looked at me and saw everything—my frozen stance, my wide eyes, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. He looked at me and knew.

The lipstick on his collar was a screaming red accusation in the pale light.

My body was still humming, that wet, insistent pulse between my legs a shameful secret he seemed to see right through. A flush burned up my neck, across my cheeks.

He didn’t say a word. Not one. He just held my gaze, his own unreadable, a storm in the quiet kitchen. The charge in the air wasn’t gone; it had shifted, twisted, and now it crackled between us, across the space littered with the ghost of what he’d just done.

I broke.

I spun around and fled, my bare feet slapping softly on the stairs. I didn’t stop until I was back in Hannah’s room, the door closed behind me, my back pressed against the cool wood. My heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. I could still see it. Him. The way he moved. The sounds. The look in his eyes when he caught me.

I slid down the door to the floor, hugging my knees. I was still wet. The ache was still there, a hollow, wanting thing. I squeezed my eyes shut, but all I saw was the stark red mark on his white collar, and the dark, knowing heat in Luca’s eyes as he watched me watch him.