Page 15 of Bitter When He Begs

The world tilts.

“What—”

My words are cut off as Luca throws me over his shoulder, my stomach pressing against his bare, sweaty skin, and I barely catch my glasses as they slip down my nose from the sudden movement.

Luca strides through the house like he owns me, one arm locked around my thighs, the other casually at his side and completely unaffected by the fact that he’s carrying a whole-ass person over his shoulder.

I should fight, but I am too fucking stunned by the sheer audacity of this motherfucker that I don’t even make a sound.

I don’t even process it until he kicks open a door—his bedroom door—and tosses me down onto his bed like I’m some toy he’s done carrying.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharpoof, my back hitting the mattress as I scramble up onto my elbows, heart pounding, glasses askew, mouth opening—

But Luca is already climbing onto the bed, caging me in, his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of my head, his broad frame crowding my space. Sweat is still glistening on his chest, his abs flexing as he leans in, his blue eyes dark and locked onto mine.

“What the hell, Luca?!” I shove at his chest—bad idea, becauseJesus fuck,he’s solid. His muscles are slick with sweat, heat radiating off of him in a way that makes my stomach twist even more. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Luca laughs, and it’s infuriating, his hips pressing down against mine as he rolls them just enough to make my breath catch.

“A lot of things,” he says. “But right now? I can’t stop thinking about how fucking jealous I got seeing you alone with Bishop.”

I blink, my brain catching on a second too late. “Roman?”

Luca hums, shifting his weight, his bare chest inches from mine, his skin slick and hot. “Didn’t like that, Sunshine.”

I scoff, trying to shove at his chest again, but he doesn’t budge, doesn’t even flinch, and it’s so fucking frustrating that my breath comes out sharp and uneven. “You’re not serious—”

“Deadserious.” He leans in, lips hovering just over mine, every single muscle tenses in anticipation instead of protest.

“I don’t like seeing you with other men,” Luca murmurs, voice dripping with possession. “Didn’t like watching you help him. Didn’t like watching you stand there—all pretty, all fuckingmine—while he had your attention.”

I let out a choked breath, my hands still braced against his chest, his muscles solid and tense beneath my palms. “He’s your friend, are youinsane?”

He grins, dipping lower, his nose brushing against mine, his hips rolling again, slower this time. “Maybe.”

I hate how fast my heart is beating. Hate how my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

Hate how good it fucking feels to be manhandled by him.

I press my hands against his chest again, intending to shove him back, intending to get out from under him, but he just laughs, grinding his hips down in retaliation, dragging a strangled sound out of my throat that makes my whole body go rigid.

Luca groans, and it sounds fucking filthy. “Fuck, you sound pretty when you’re frustrated.”

I clench my teeth, glaring, but that only seems to amuse him more. He dips lower, voice dropping to something that slides straight down my spine. “Bet you’d sound even prettier if I had my mouth on you.”

I make a needy as fuck sound that should not have come out of my mouth, and Luca hears it, his smirk widening, his hips rolling again as he presses his lips against my ear.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, his voice smooth as sin. “You act like you don’t want me here, but I can feel your cock pressing up against mine, Sunshine.”

I exhale sharply, my pulse hammering, my entire body lighting up with heat that I refuse to acknowledge. “Fuck you,” I grit out.

Luca chuckles, slow and dangerous. “That an offer?”

I make another frustrated noise, shoving at his chest again, and this time, he lets me push him back just enough that I can breathe. But his smirk never fades. His hands stay planted on either side of my head, his weight still caging me in, his eyes still fucking watching me.

His gaze drags down my face like he’s memorizing me—every twitch, every bead of sweat, every time my breath stutters. I hate him for how close he is, for how hot his skin feels, for how he smells like salt and expensive cologne and everything that fucks with my self-control.

“I love how you fight me,” he says, his voice all smooth steel and sex, his hands still planted on either side of my head. “But you’re still here. Still under me. Still hard for me.”