I lift my head, my eyes finding hers, and there’s something there—trust, desire, a fierce tenderness that makes my chest ache. She’s flushed, her lips red and swollen, her hair a wild mess across the couch, and she’s never been more beautiful.
I kiss her, slow and deep, tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her lips, and she melts into me, her fingers curling in my hair, holding me close. The kiss lingers, grounding us both, and I feel her body relax beneath me, sated but still alive with the afterglow of what we’ve done.
I pull out gently, my cock slick with her, and the loss of her warmth makes me groan softly. Her thighs are slick, her essence glistening in the low light, and I can’t help but look, my cock twitching at the sight of her, marked by me, claimed by me.
She shifts, her body curling toward mine, and I pull her close, my arm wrapping around her waist, her head resting against my chest. I press my forehead to hers, my breath still rough.
The scent of her—lavender and sex—fills my lungs, and I hold her tight, my hand stroking her hair, anchoring us in this moment, in the quiet that follows the storm.
16
LILIANA
The car pulls through the gates just as the first light of morning starts to soften the edges of the estate. The sky is pale, washed in gold, the kind of morning that feels almost unreal after the night we’ve had. We didn’t come home last night. We stayed in the lounge at the club, tucked away from the world, the hours passing in a haze of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.
By the time we step inside, the house is still and hushed. Giovanni doesn’t let go of my hand until we reach his room. There’s no discussion of separate spaces, no pause at the door to my own. His world moves forward with an ease I’ve stopped trying to resist.
He strips off his jacket, his cufflinks, the shirt that still smells faintly of the night, before pulling me down beside him. The bed is warm in seconds, the covers cocooning us from the pale light seeping through the curtains. I sink into him, his chest solid under my cheek, his hand resting low at my back like it belongs there.
The world feels far away here.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, our breaths falling into the same rhythm, the silence a steady thing that doesn’t need breaking. He doesn’t sleep right away, though. His fingers trace idle patterns at my hip, slow, deliberate. I keep my eyes closed, but I feel him looking at me, the weight of his gaze quiet but certain.
At some point, sleep does take me, warm and heavy, with his arm still draped over me.
When I wake, the room smells faintly of coffee. The light has shifted, brighter now, spilling across the bed. Giovanni is still there, propped against the headboard, his hair slightly tousled, his shirt open at the collar. His arm tightens slightly when I stir, the faintest pressure drawing me closer again.
There’s a knock at the door, soft but certain, and Maria steps in a moment later with a tray in her hands. The smell of fresh bread and eggs follows her. She sets the tray down on the table near the window, her eyes flicking toward Giovanni briefly before she glances at me.
She doesn’t linger, only nods once before slipping back out, the door clicking softly behind her.
Giovanni waits until she’s gone before reaching for the tray. He brings it to the bed, setting it between us. I shift to sit up, the blankets still pulled around me.
“Breakfast in bed,” he says lightly, his voice touched with something that almost sounds like amusement.
I glance at him, my hands moving just enough to sign a quiet Thank you.
He watches my hands for a moment, then nods, a faint curve at his mouth. “Eat,” he says, breaking off a piece of bread and setting it on my plate before pouring coffee into two cups.
I take a sip, the warmth spreading through me. He’s already cutting into his eggs, his movements deliberate, precise. His attention shifts back to me as we eat, his gaze holding steady like he’s more focused on me than the food.
He talks as we eat, his voice low, even. About the meeting he has later in the afternoon. About something Tomasso told him last week. About the work he left undone yesterday. He doesn’t dress it up, doesn’t try to make it something it isn’t. It’s just conversation, the kind that slips easily into the quiet space between us.
I listen, my hands moving occasionally to respond when he glances at me as though expecting a thought, a word, even asmall acknowledgment. Sometimes I just nod. Sometimes I sign something brief. He watches every time, his eyes following the shape of my hands, his attention undivided.
He’s different here, in the stillness of his own room. His voice is less sharp, his posture looser. There’s none of the calculation he wears in public, none of the cold precision that marks him everywhere else.
I think about the night before, about the way he stepped in front of me without hesitation, the way his voice changed when he introduced me. I think about the way he looked at me then, and the way he looks at me now.
It’s disarming, how easy it feels. How natural.
We finish eating, the plates pushed to the side, the coffee cups still half-full. He stays close, his arm resting along the back of the bed, his fingers brushing my shoulder occasionally as he talks.
I find myself watching his mouth as he speaks, the even rhythm of his words. I realize at some point that I’ve stopped thinking about what he might mean by all of this, about what it might cost.
For now, it’s just him. And me. And the kind of quiet I never thought I’d find here.
The morning drifts on. The light shifts again, warmer now, spilling in golden strips across the floor. Giovanni’s phonebuzzes once on the table. He doesn’t move at first, his gaze still on me. Then he sighs quietly, reaching for it.
