I want him

At first, it was clumsy. Her lips missed the mark slightly, but he caught them with his own—hot and demanding. His hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her closer as his tongue slid into her mouth, slow and deep. She moaned softly against him, her body arching into his as if it had been craving this for years.

The kiss grew more intense—his lips bruising hers, his hands roaming like they owned every part of her. One hand slipped under her dress, fingers dragging up her bare thigh. The other palmed her breast, his thumb circling over the fabric, teasing her. Her nipples stiffened instantly.

She gasped against his mouth. “God…”

She didn’t even care that his arm was still bleeding. She didn’t care that he had killed two people. Her body was burning, wild, and all she could think about was how badly she wanted him.

He pushed her gently onto the bed, crawling over her like a predator about to devour his prey. Her back arched as his mouth found her collarbone, then trailed lower. He sucked and bit her skin like he wanted to leave proof she’d been his.

She reached up, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer.

“You don’t even care I’m hurt?” he murmured against her neck, half-amused.

“No,” she whispered, breathless. “I don’t care. I just want you.”

He growled low in his throat, his eyes dark and hungry. “Then you’ll have me.”

Their clothes were halfway off—her dress bunched around her waist, his pants undone. His skin was hot, smooth, muscles flexing under her fingers. He pinned her with his body, firm and heavy, kissing her again like he was starving.

His hands moved between her thighs, spreading them apart. She trembled beneath him, gasping, moaning into the kiss. The room felt like it was spinning, but not from the alcohol—this was something else. Something deeper.

He bit her lip, gently but rough enough to make her cry out.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded.

“I want this,” she breathed. “I want you.”

Then there were no more words—just bodies and heat and movement. He filled her completely, and she cried out again, clinging to him, wrapping her legs around his waist. The rhythm was slow at first, teasing, dragging out every sensation until she was shaking underneath him.

And then he picked up the pace.

His name fell from her lips like a chant. She didn’t even realize she was crying a little—not from pain, but from everything. The betrayal. The heartbreak. The chaos. And now this.

He took all of it. Every part of her. Like he already knew how to break her open just to make her whole again.

They didn’t stop until the sun was peeking through the curtains.

She passed out with his breath still warm against her skin and his arm draped protectively over her waist—blood-stained bandage and all.

And for a moment, she forgot who he was.

She forgot who she was.

She just felt… claimed.

Early the next morning, Diana woke up to soft sunlight spilling across the bed. The warmth hit her skin, and for a second, she didn’t know where she was.

Then she shifted.

Pain. Ache. A strange soreness between her thighs, like she’d been split open and rebuilt.

Her eyes fluttered open—and there he was.

Vincenzo.

Lying beside her, shirtless, one arm slung across her waist like she belonged to him. His breathing was deep and steady, his long lashes resting against his cheeks. In sleep, he looked… almost calm. Like the man who held a gun and shot two people last night had disappeared.

She stared at him, feeling her stomach twist.

He was beautiful—of course he was. His dark hair was messy, his chest broad and scarred, but perfect. And yet… her fingers, halfway to brushing his jaw, froze midair.

He killed two people.

He did it like it meant nothing. Like it was as easy as breathing.

And she slept beside him, like she was safe.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Her heart started pounding. She needed to go. Now.

She slowly slid his arm off her, careful not to wake him. He didn’t stir. She held her breath, grabbed her dress from the floor, and pulled it over her head. Her panties were missing—probably still somewhere near the bed—but she didn’t care.

She was barefoot again.

Tiptoeing out of the room, she tried to ignore the sticky feeling between her thighs and the soreness in her hips. She crept down the long hallway, her pulse pounding with every step. The place was too quiet. No music. No voices. Just silence. Heavy, dangerous silence.

Then she spotted her.

A woman in a black-and-white maid uniform, dusting a vase on a table by the stairs.

“Excuse me,” she whispered.

The woman turned slowly, her brows lifting. “Yes?”

“Um…” Diana forced a shaky smile. “Where’s the main gate?”

The woman narrowed her eyes, taking a slow look at Diana—her messy hair, the wrinkled dress, her bare feet. She must’ve looked like a walk of shame with a side of fear.

“Aren’t you the girl the boss brought home last night?” she asked bluntly.

Diana swallowed. “No. I… I came to fix something for him. I didn’t even want to come. They made me.”

The maid stared at her for a second longer. Diana held her gaze, hoping she couldn’t hear how fast her heart was beating.

She finally pointed down the stairs. “Through the garden. You'll see the main gate.”

“Thank you,” Diana whispered.

She didn’t run—not yet. She walked slowly until she reached the last step. Then she turned the corner, saw the hallway open up to a huge glass door, and she sprinted.

She didn’t even know how the guards weren’t there. Maybe they were out front. Maybe they thought no one would dare leave. Or maybe Vincenzo had ordered them to leave her be.

Either way, she didn’t wait around to question it.

She yanked open the door, burst into the garden, and kept running. Through trimmed hedges and expensive marble paths, past statues and fountains that glittered under the morning sun. Her feet slapped against stone, aching with every step.

And then—she saw it.

The gate.

Tall, black, made of iron. Closed, but not locked. She gripped the cold bars and shoved it open with all her strength.

It creaked.

And she ran.

Down the road, into the unknown, her bare feet burning on the asphalt. She didn’t stop to look back.

Not at the mansion. Not at the life she almost walked into. Not at the man she left in that bed.

She didn’t know where she was going.

She just knew she had to get far, far away from Vincenzo.

Before he woke up and came looking for her.