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His weight rests on my chest as the throes shudder through us. He’s still buried in my heat, still heavy on top of me and pressing me into the mattress.

He lifts his head to gaze at me with soft eyes, the hunger burned away and exposing tenderness.

“Lucia.” He says my name again, and this time it’s not a command or a question. It’s an admission.

I draw him down and kiss him, softly and slowly. When we finally split apart, he rolls onto his side and tugs me along with him, keeping me wrapped in his arms. He doesn’t pull out. He stays within me, as if letting go isn’t an option.

“I meant what I said.” His breath tickles my hairline, and his arms tighten around me. He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again, as if the right words keep slipping past him. “You make me feel. That’s all. After years of nothing, you make me feel.”

I bury my face into his chest, inhaling sweat and sex and his woodsy scent. My heart still races, and my body hums. But beneath the physical satisfaction, this feels almost akin to coming home.

Chapter 10

Marco

“Mornings after” don’t exist for me. All of my hookups and flings follow this staunch rule.

That rule has one problem, though. I must be able to walk away from the woman I slept with.

Lucia Romano, however, lies asleep in my gray t-shirt, her hair spread across the pillow like she fell onto it mid-thought. Her mouth hangs open almost comically, yet the sight hits me in the chest. One of her hands has migrated across the formerly demilitarized zone and rests against my ribs as if it belongs.

I extract myself, get dressed, and check my phone.

Nico’s last message about Bruno’s threat sits at the top of my notifications. Enzo’s request for a nine o’clock follow-up meeting is right beneath it.

By now, I should be up and running, so I can’t explain why I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed memorizing the rhythm of her breathing.

She wakes under my gaze, quick and alert. Her eyes assess the room, the door, the window, and finally me.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

She pushes herself upright, dragging her hair back from her face, and I can sense her mentally setting herself up to appear unaffected. If I hadn’t spent the past several days watching her, I might believe the act.

After gathering her clothes, she heads to the bathroom.

I give her ninety seconds, long enough to offer the illusion that she’s regained control, before I follow.

Steam fills the bathroom as she stands under the showerhead, her face tilted up and her eyes closed. When I slide the glass door open, she gives a startled jump then instantly tries to mask that reaction.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re going to tell me it was nothing.”

She doesn’t switch off the water. “It was nothing.”

“You’re biting your lip again.”

Her hand flies to her mouth before she can stop herself.

As I drift closer, water soaks into my shirt. With steam curling between us, I brace one hand against the tile above her head.

“You bite your lower lip when you’re lying. And you’ve been doing that since the moment you woke up.”

Silence stretches between us.

“It was one night.” Her argument contains a defiant edge.