~ 2

Chapter 2

Aria felt something break inside her — four years of restraint, of pretending she'd forgotten him, of trying to be someone other than Vittorio Santoro's daughter. The whiskey had melted her filters, and she was so tired of fighting.

"I've wanted you since I was eighteen years old," she 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." She 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; she 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?" She closed the distance between them, tilted her 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 her face, thumb brushing her 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 her like a man who had been starving for years — brutal, consuming, teeth clashing before tongues found each other in a wet, filthy slide. One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so he could devour her throat; the other clamped possessively around her ass, hauling her up his body until her legs locked around his waist.

Aria moaned into his mouth, grinding down hard against the thick ridge already straining behind his trousers. She could feel how brutally hard he was and the realization made her cunt clench emptily. 

Four years of suppressed fantasies detonated inside her.

He carried her into the bedroom without breaking the kiss, kicked the door shut, and dropped her onto the mattress hard enough that she bounced once. 

Before she could catch her breath he was on her, ripping her sweater over her head, tearing the thin lace bra down so her breasts spilled free. His mouth closed over one nipple — hot, wet suction followed by the sharp edge of teeth. 

Aria arched with a broken cry, fingers digging into his scalp.

"Fuck… Luca…"

He bit harder, just shy of pain, then soothed the sting with slow, filthy licks while his hand shoved under her skirt. 

No preamble. Two thick fingers pushed her soaked panties aside and plunged straight into her dripping cunt.

She keened, hips jerking up to meet the rough thrust. He curled them immediately, stroking that swollen spot inside her with ruthless precision while his thumb found her clit and circled with brutal pressure.

"You're fucking soaked," he growled against her breast. "All this time pretending you hate me and your pussy is weeping for my cock."

"Yes…" She was already shaking. "Wanted it… wanted you… so badly…"

He added a third finger, stretching her open, pumping hard and fast while his mouth moved to the other nipple. 

The wet, obscene sound of his fingers fucking into her filled the room. Aria's thighs trembled, inner muscles fluttering desperately around the invasion.

He pulled his hand free abruptly. She whimpered at the loss… until she saw him tear his belt open, yank his zipper down, and shove his trousers and briefs just low enough to free himself.

His cock slapped heavy against his stomach… thick, veined, the head flushed dark and already slick with pre-cum. 

Aria's mouth watered. Before she could reach for him, Luca flipped her onto her stomach, dragged her hips up, and shoved her skirt to her waist.

"Hands on the headboard," he ordered, voice gravel.

She obeyed instantly, fingers wrapping around the wood.

He didn't ease in.

One brutal thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, balls slapping her clit. Aria screamed, the stretch burning so good she nearly came on the spot. 

He didn't give her time to adjust…pulled out almost completely and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that rocked the entire bed.

"Too much?" he rasped, though he didn't slow down.

"No… harder… fuck me like you hate me…"

His hand cracked across her ass… sharp, stinging heat. Then again. And again. Each slap drove her higher, made her cunt gush around his pistoning cock.

"You think I could ever hate this pussy?" He wrapped her hair around his fist, yanked her head back so he could growl directly in her ear. "I've jerked off thinking about wrecking you for years. Every time you wore those little sundresses in Provence. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to be ruined."

He changed the angle, driving so deep she felt him in her throat. The headboard slammed rhythmically against the wall.

"Luca… I'm… fuck… I'm gonna…"

"Come on my cock," he snarled. "Milk me. Show me how badly you've wanted this."

She shattered… violent, full-body convulsions, cunt clamping down so hard he groaned like he'd been punched. Her orgasm ripped through her in endless waves while he fucked her through it, prolonging the pleasure until she was sobbing, oversensitive, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

He didn't stop.

Flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and drove back inside at a deeper angle that made her see stars. His thumb found her clit again… rubbing fast, merciless circles while he pounded into her.

"Again," he demanded. "Give me another one. I want to feel you come apart while I fill you up."

She was helpless…too sensitive, too full, too everything. 

The second orgasm hit like a freight train, tearing a raw scream from her throat. Her nails raked bloody lines down his back; he hissed in pleasure-pain and slammed home one final time.

He came with a guttural curse in Italian, hips jerking erratically as he pumped thick, hot spurts deep inside her. So much that she felt it leak out around his cock even while he was still buried to the root.

They collapsed together, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat and sex. His cock was still half-hard inside her, twitching occasionally. Neither of them moved to separate.

"Luca…"

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

But he stayed buried inside her, softening slowly, one hand possessively cupping her breast while the other tangled in her hair.

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

But for now, in this stolen moment, Aria let herself have this. Let herself have him.

Even if it could only be once.