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~ Aria ~

Something broke inside me—four years of restraint, of pretending I'd forgotten him, of trying to be someone other than Vittorio Santoro's daughter. The whiskey had melted my filters, and I was so tired of fighting.

"I've wanted you since I was eighteen years old," I said. "I used to lie awake at night in Provence thinking about you. Imagining what it would feel like if you touched me. Kissed me." I moved toward him. "I'm not eighteen anymore, Luca."

"Aria…"

"Tell me you don't want me. Tell me you never thought about it. All those times you found excuses to be near me that summer. The way you watched me. Tell me I imagined it."

His control was fracturing; I could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the rapid pulse at his throat. "You didn't imagine it."

"Then stop fighting it."

"I work for your father. You're…"

"I'm what? Off-limits? Forbidden?" I closed the distance between us, tilted my face up to his. "I'm tired of being something people protect and manage and control. I want to feel something real."

His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "This is a mistake."

"Then make it with me."

For one suspended moment, nothing happened. Then Luca's control shattered.

He kissed me like a man who had been starving for years — deep, consuming, breath mingling as our lips met. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so he could devour my mouth and throat; the other clamped possessively around my waist, hauling me up his body until my legs locked around his waist.

I breathed softly into his mouth, pressing close against his chest. I could feel the intense heat of him and the realization made my heart race.

Four years of suppressed fantasies detonated inside me.

He carried me into the bedroom without breaking the kiss, kicked the door shut, and dropped me onto the mattress.

Before I could catch my breath he was on me, pulling my sweater over my head, sliding the thin straps of my bra down so my skin was bare. His mouth closed over my collarbone—hot, lingering warmth followed by a gentle pressure.

I arched with a soft sigh, fingers digging into his scalp.

"Luca…"

He kissed the curve of my shoulder, then soothed the spot with slow, gentle caresses while his hand slid under the hem of my skirt.

Then his touch brushed against my waist and hip, drawing a shiver from my lips.

I gasped, hips lifting slightly. He stroked my back with devastating patience, holding me close.

"You're amazing," he murmured against my hip. "You have been in my thoughts constantly. You are wonderful, Aria."

"Wanted you…" I was already shaking. "Wanted this… so badly…"

He didn't look away from my face once. He watched every gasp, every flutter of my lashes, as if my presence was the only thing in the world worth his attention. When a wave of intense emotion swept through me with his name on my lips, he held me tight through every shivering breath until I relaxed against him.

I didn't give him time to speak.

I pushed at his shoulders, and he let me roll him onto his back. My fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, then yanked them open. I pulled his belt loose, dragged his zipper down, and pressed against him.

"My turn," I said.

Something flared in his eyes. He didn't argue.

I straddled his hips and leaned down slowly, inch by inch, the closeness sending a thrill through my entire body. Luca groaned like he'd been wounded. His hands gripped my hips, not guiding me, just holding on.

"Aria…" His voice was wrecked. "Dio, Aria."

I held him the way I'd imagined for four years: slow at first, then closer, watching the consigliere who never lost control come apart beneath me. His head pressed back into the pillow. His fingers bruised my hips.

Then he surged up, rolled us, and pinned me to the mattress, and everything turned fast and desperate. He hooked my knee over his arm and pulled me close enough to steal my breath, the headboard knocking against the wall with every movement.

"Closer," I gasped. "Hold me like you never want to let me go."

"Let you go?" He laughed, low and ragged, against my throat. "I've spent four years trying to. Every time you wore those little sundresses in Provence. Every time you looked at me like you knew exactly what I wanted to do to you."

His hand found my waist again, pulling me tight while he pressed into me, and I felt another wave building, bigger than the first.

"Luca… I'm… I'm gonna…"

"I know," he breathed. "Let go. I've got you."

I shattered. It tore a raw breath from my throat, my nails raking lines down his back, my body holding onto him so hard he swore. He pulled me close one final time and spoke with a guttural curse in Italian, his forehead pressed hard to mine.

We collapsed together, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat. Neither of us moved to separate.

"Luca…"

"I know." His voice was wrecked. "I know."

But he stayed close, one hand tangled in my hair, his lips pressed to my shoulder like he couldn't bring himself to stop touching me.

Outside, the Boston skyline glittered in the darkness. And in a few hours, the jet would be ready to carry us both back to France, back to my father's world, back to consequences neither of us were ready to face.

But for now, in this stolen moment, I let myself have this. Let myself have him.

Even if it could only be once.