“Luca!” she gasps. It’s a protest, but her hands are already reaching for the hem of that nightie and she’s rocking into my hardness.
Seeing that she’s done with her futile protest, the gown nothing but a black cloud on the floor, I pull myself out as she raises up on her knees just enough for me to angle myself at her entrance.
The countdown to the premiere ticks away on the screen, but in here, the only rhythm that matters is the frantic staccato of her heart against mine.
“Luca, you’re… you’re too big for this angle,” she whispers, and I can see the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.
I kiss her cheeks, then her lips, before slowly inching in. Just the tip at first. “You dictate how deep I go. How fast. How hard.” I reach down and squeeze her hips, spreading her to give us both more room for the stretch. The beautiful, searing burn. But I feel the need to remind her as I drop my tone, “this time.”
She nods, her breath hitching as she begins to find her rhythm.
“Show me, wife. Show me exactly how you take your husband. Show me how much of me you want.”
I lean back, anchoring myself against the headboard while she grips my chest for balance. She’s moving with intention now, rolling her hips to loosen herself, her confidence growing with every slick slide.
“That’s it. Tease me, love,” I groan. “But don’t take too long. The clock is ticking.”
It’s a staggering sight—watching her shed her inhibitions in the heat of the moment. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and I can tell she’s fighting through the last of her shyness, claiming herspace. Then, she sinks down, taking all of me. She’s buried to the hilt in her own wetness, and she’s the one driving every inch of the pace.
I’m losing my mind. I can’t just watch anymore. “Give me permission to take over, love,” I pant, my hands twitching to seize control.
“No, Luca,” she gasps, her voice raw. “Almost there!”
“Are you fucking defying me?”
“I’m taking what’s mine,” she shoots back, her eyes snapping open with a fierce, beautiful defiance.
I reach up, grabbing her face hard and pulling her mouth to mine in a bruising kiss. “I fucking love you,” I grunt against her lips as she rocks faster, chasing her release with a predatory focus.
This is her moment. Her time to take exactly what she wants from me. I come so deep inside her that the sight of her triumph practically blinds me.
As the world stops spinning, she settles her head against my chest, her breath ragged. “I fucking love you, too,” she whispers.
Aspen
What am I going to do with this man?
Seriously. I need him off the injured list and back on the field full-time because my legs and my labia are at war with my good sense.
Luca is propped up against the headboard, his leg still elevated, while I’m tucked into the crook of his arm. On the screen, the latest episode ofSightUnseenis playing, and it feels surreal to watch our lives edited into a high-stakes soap opera.
“Look at them,” I laugh, pointing as one of the other couples—a fitness influencer and a real estate mogul—practically tears each other's clothes off the second they cross the threshold of their honeymoon suite. “They didn't even check to see if there were snacks in the minibar. Just straight to the main course.”
Luca chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into my shoulder. “Meanwhile, you were trying to manufacture a lifetime of history between us before you even let me touch you.”
“I was not that bad,” I protest, though I know I’m lying. “I just have standards. I wasn't letting a stranger—even a very handsome, very persistent stranger—into my bed just because he married me! What do I look like? Some common street whore?”
He laughs. “You look like my beautiful, insanely guarded wife,” he says softly, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my bare arm. “Like you were waiting for me to trip a wire.”
“I wasn’t guarded,” I correct him, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “I was cautious. There’s a difference. Guarded means you’re hiding. Cautious means you’re watching. I wanted to see if the man in the arcade was the same man in the daylight.”
“And?”
“The jury is still out,” I tease, though we both know that’s a lie. I hate that I’m falling so deeply in love with this man and he can feel it just as clearly as me.
He groans playfully, shifting his weight. “The jury is biased. I’m going to the restroom,” he says, and I miss him instantly.
No longer needing his crutches, I watch as he walks out of the room. His stride finding its normal rhythm again. I settle back into the pillows, my eyes drifting back to the screen. The episode cuts to the “Confessional” segments—the solo interviews where the producers get us away from our partners to spill our private thoughts.
