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I don’t.
My breath shatters. My knees buckle. One hand slaps against the tile, keeping me upright as I picture his front pressing into my back, his inked skin against mine, the scent of him drowning me. He’d pin me there, hold me down, make me take it—make me feel how much he owns me.
"Adriano," I gasp, fingers speeding up, the pressure cresting, burning, consuming. I see him, feel him, hear him. His growl, his breath, the weight of his hands forcing me apart. Touching me everywhere.
Guilt tears through me when my mind takes me back to that night. But my body is a traitor, too far gone, too desperate to care. Then Sophia’s face flashes through my mind, and I freeze.
My dead best friend's dad.
Her dad. Her fucking dad.
Life’s a cruel bastard. Dangles what you can’t have, then laughs while you burn.
The water goes cold. My body jerks, the pleasure vanishing into ice.
I stumble out, the water dripping from my skin, and I drag a towel around me. My legs tremble as I collapse onto the mattress, the springs groaning under me. The room isn’t completely dark and the streetlight slices through the blinds, casting dim streaks of light, breaking through just enough to keep the darkness at bay.
I try to sleep, but it won’t come. Not with his name still caught in my throat.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone.
And I give in.
It’s not wrong. It can’t be. Everyone’s online these days, from pictures, to articles. We all have pieces of our lives scattered like breadcrumbs. If he didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t exist for me to find.
Every obsession starts somewhere. Every girl with a filthy little secret does this.
So why does it feel like sin?
Adriano Vieri.
I type his name fast, desperate. The first image hits like a fist to my ribs, those gray-green eyes cutting through a gala shot, so sharp and soulless. Detached. A man who doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter, doesn’t belong to anyone.
My breath catches. I draw the sheets up and hold my phone tighter. I should stop. I don’t.
Because I’ve wanted him forever.
Not in the harmless way girls want things. Not in a way that fades. I’ve wanted him in ways I wasn’t supposed to, in ways that rooted deep, in ways that made me feel wrong. So many stolen glances that I yearned for.
I was young, but not blind. Not stupid.
He never looked at me. Not once.
But that never stopped me from waiting for the moment he would.
I scroll, starving.
I go through the motions with my phone, from grocery shopping online, to answering Gianna’s texts, and back to pretending I’m not looking him up again. Pretending I’m not thinking about him. But I am. It’s a sickness, gnawing, and dragging me back to him.
I keep replaying that moment in my head. Should I have gone outside? Would he have recognized me? Why did the sight of him make it hard to breathe?
I should sleep, but my mind is restless, tangled in memories I thought I’d buried.
I open a new tab.
It’s stupid. Reckless. But I need to know more.
In another picture, this time he’s standing outside some ritzy building, flanked by men in dark suits. No smile, no frown, just a blank intensity that burrows under my skin. Next, he’s kneeling with a golden retriever, head tilted back, eyes closed. Like he’s at peace.