Before I could say a word, his fingers slipped between my thighs again—two of them sliding in easily, slick from everything we’d just shared. I gasped, arching up, my hips chasing the rhythm he hadn’t even set yet. He moved them slowly, curling just right, thumb brushing over my clit in soft, maddening circles. “Now,” he whispered, tongue flicking the shell of my ear, “I want to hear something from you.” His fingers worked deeper, faster, each stroke making my thighs shake. “What…” I breathed, barely able to think. “What do you want to hear?” He bit my earlobe gently, fingers thrusting harder, slick sounds filling the room like music only we could hear. “What do you call me,” he growled, “when I’m fucking you like this? When I’m rough… when I’m claiming what’s mine?” My heart pounded so loud I could hear it in my ears. My skin was burning, my legs trembling. “Say it,” he coaxed, thumb pressing hard on my clit now, fingers curling perfectly. “Say it, baby. What do you call me w
I didn’t answer him. Not with words. Instead, I rose up on my toes, curled my fingers into his shirt, and pulled him down into another kiss. This one wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful or uncertain or held back by ghosts. It was fire. It was our long silence breaking open, of grief and lust and longing spilling into every breath. I kissed him like I wanted to burn it all down—every wall, every boundary, every stupid reason we hadn’t gotten here sooner. He groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against my lips as he backed me up until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. We fell onto it together, tangled in breath and heat and urgency. But even in the madness, he was careful—his hands on my face, his mouth moving slower than I expected. It wasn't like the other times. He wasn't trying to erase something or prove anything. He was trying to feel me. "Make love to me," I whispered against his mouth, barely recognizing my own voice. "Now. Please." His eyes met min
He stood at the edge of the room like he was wrestling a war inside his chest. Like if he looked at me again, he might unravel. I didn’t know whether to scream or cry. Maybe both. My whole body was trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of everything unsaid between us. Every word we’d bitten back. Every stolen glance. Every night filled with silence instead of truth.And then—He turned.Slowly. Deliberately. Eyes locked on mine."Do you know why I never kissed you," he said, his voice hoarse, broken, "no matter how many nights I spent inside you?"The breath in my lungs caught. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out. He started walking toward me, the space between us closing, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat."It’s not because I didn’t want to," he said. "God, Emily. I wanted to. Every single time I touched you. I wanted to feel your lips. Taste you. Mark you. But I couldn’t."His voice cracked at the end, just slightly. Enough to slice straight through me."Th
I woke up in a tangle of silk sheets, the scent of lavender faint in the air. For a moment, I didn’t remember where I was. Then the ceiling came into focus, tall and intricate with its soft ambient lights, and I remembered. The penthouse. The place that was supposed to be my safe haven, my quiet escape from the noise of the world.But something was off.I could feel it. That prickling sensation at the base of my neck. The hairs on my arms rising without reason. I blinked slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.And then I saw him.Lorenzo.Sitting in the chair beside my bed.Just sitting there.His posture was relaxed, almost too much so, as if he’d been sitting there for hours, maybe longer. But his eyes—they were anything but calm.They were shattered.Bleeding with hurt. With something deeper than anger. Something rawer than rage.My throat dried.“Lorenzo…” I whispered.His voice was quiet. Steady. Dangerous."Is it because I’m old?"I blinked, confused. "What?"His gaze didn’t
The penthouse was silent.The kind of silence that didn’t welcome you—it unsettled you.I stepped through the door and closed it softly behind me, the faint click echoing in the massive space like a warning. My heels tapped against the marble floors, too loud in the stillness. The lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the polished surfaces.And he wasn’t here.I stood frozen for a second. Just listening. Expecting to hear something. The quiet rustle of clothes. The low murmur of his voice. The subtle sound of a drink being poured. Anything.But there was nothing.No sign of Mr De Vito.I turned slowly, scanning the living room. Everything was untouched—the throw draped neatly over the arm of the sofa, the glass sculpture still catching the city lights from the windows. The air inside was cool, still, and far too calm for the storm building inside me.Where was he?I dropped my purse on the nearest chair and crossed quickly to the kitchen, flicking on the light. Empty. Not a
The silence inside the car was nothing like the one at dinner.This silence was taut. Heavy. Pulling at my nerves like strings wound too tight, humming with the weight of something unsaid.I sat in the passenger seat, hands folded in my lap, eyes fixed on the city lights flashing by the window. Alessandro’s car moved smoothly through the streets, the soft hum of the engine doing little to ease the pounding in my chest.He had kissed me.I had kissed him back.And now I was sitting in his car, heart racing, blood roaring in my ears, completely unable to shake the image burned into my brain—the blue of his eyes in the dark, like a flame behind glass."You okay?"His voice cut through the quiet, low and careful.I turned my head, startled. Alessandro glanced at me quickly before looking back at the road, his hand relaxed on the wheel.I forced a nod. "Yeah. I'm okay.""Are you sure?"His tone was softer now, more intimate. There was something about the way he spoke that made me want to c