It's not supposed to be.
His mouth is demanding from the first second, like he's been holding this back and finally ran out of reasons to keep doing it. I grab the front of his shirt without deciding to. He makes a sound against my mouth — low, rough, the kind of sound that short-circuits your entire nervous system — and his other hand finds my waist, pulls me in.
Then I'm pressed against the kitchen island, his hands on me, with absolutely zero interest in stopping.
I bite his lower lip.
He growls.
Actually growls. Like an animal. It should be ridiculous — it should be a thing I hold over him for the foreseeable future — except my entire body lights up like he's flipped a switch and I am not laughing. I am the opposite of laughing. I am pulling him closer by his collar and making sounds I will spend tomorrow pretending I never made.
His hands move — one sliding into my hair, tilting my head back, the other dropping to my hip and gripping hard enough that I'll feel it tomorrow. I arch into him because my body stopped asking my brain for permission about three exchanges ago, and he responds immediately, pressing closer and giving me the full, solid heat of him.
"Serafina." My name is in his mouth. Rough and low, against my jaw. Like a prayer he didn't plan to say.
"Don't stop." It comes out before I can stop it. "I mean it in every possible way."
He doesn't stop.
His mouth finds my throat, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders and stop thinking entirely. There's just this — his hands, his weight, the counter edge biting into my back, his breathing ragged against my skin.
I feel wanted in a way I've never allowed myself to need. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced kind. The kind that borders on violent. The kind that takes and takes and doesn't apologize for any of it.
His hand slides under the hem of my shirt. Splays flat against my ribs. Hot skin against hot skin, and I feel it everywhere.
I pull his mouth back to mine.
We stay like that — tangled and breathless, not crossing the line but standing right at the edge of it, neither of us willing to be the one who pulls back first — until a door opens somewhere above us.
Footsteps on the stairs.
We break apart.
Luca steps back. One step. Two. His chest is rising. His hair is wrecked. He looks at me for one unguarded second — want sonaked it makes my knees weak — and then it's gone. Shut down. His face goes back to what it always is. Controlled. Unreadable. A wall in a tailored shirt.
He straightens his sleeve.
His goddamn sleeve. After all of that, the first thing Luca Moretti does is straighten his sleeve, and I want to scream at him, and I want to pull him back, and I want to do several things at once that I have no business wanting.
I press my fingers to my lips and say nothing.
If I open my mouth right now, I will say something I cannot take back.
Then the lights go out.
Total blackout — every lamp, every camera indicator, every green pulse on the security panel by the door. Gone. The kitchen drops into absolute darkness.
Luca's hand finds my arm instantly. "Stay here."
Outside, from the front steps — fast footsteps. More than one person.
Moving toward the door.
8
LUCA
Three seconds.
