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My lips part easily, and his tongue slides between them, seeking mine. Every man I’ve ever kissed before feels like a novice compared to how Nicolas claims my mouth. It’s as if he wants to possess me entirely, and the fire and intensity make it impossible to focus on anything else.

His fingers twist in my hair, yanking my head back sharply as if drowning in the sensation.

This isn’t just passion—it’s anger, need, and a deep, searing pain. I remember the weary, haunted look in his eyes from last night. Something heavy weighs on him, too. I sense we’re both carrying burdens we can’t easily shed, and right now, I want to channel all my unspoken emotions into this kiss.

He squeezes my ass harder, his grip bruising until it’s almost impossible for me to breathe. But the frustrated virgin ghost inside me doesn’t care as he caresses my body, each touch igniting shivers that crash against the heat of my skin.

This isn’t supposed to feel good.

My head spins, every coherent thought swallowed by the sensation of him—his lips, his tongue, the way his body presses tightly against mine. A low, traitorous sound escapes my throat, and I hate myself for it even more.

No. This isn’t who I am.

I dig through every image of Nicolas—the moments on the balcony, the strained conversation at the restaurant, and even how he looks at me now. I channel my frustration into those memories, letting them fuel my actions. I press my teeth into his lower lip, biting hard enough to elicit a wince.

He pulls back abruptly, his hand falling from my hair, and I watch as a flash of surprise flickers across his dark gaze. But there’s a trace of amusement there too. He touches his lip with his thumb, his fingers smearing blood across his skin, and his smirk widens.

He smiles, but it’s not a kind smile. It’s the kind that twists my stomach into knots. His gaze holds mine as he easily swipes his tongue over the bloodstained cut, as if tasting his own blood means nothing to him.

“What the fuck was that for?” I snap, my voice sharp and unwavering.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves to the door, glancing left and right, waiting for a few agonizing seconds before stepping back into the room. Without a word, he removes his shirt and folds it neatly, his movements deliberate and measured.

Finally, he speaks, his voice calm but commanding. “I don’t care what happens behind closed doors,bambina.”

His Italian accent curls around the word like a thorn, and I don’t know if I despise it or if a strange part of me is drawn to it.

He continues, his tone cool and measured. “But in front of the staff, and in front of any other fucking person, you will not disrespect me. Ever. Do you understand?”

Anger pulses through me, and I’m glad for it. It anchors me against the chaos of what’s unfolding. There’s no way I’d be locking lips with an asshole like him again. “Disrespect you?” I echo, my voice filled with venom. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, Nicolas Paolo, but isn’t respect something you earn?”

He chuckles, a low, condescending sound. “You’re implying that I have to earnyourrespect? You?”

I roll my eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface. “There’s not a single thing you can do that’ll make me respect you. You’ve destroyed my life. I’d have to pull off some award-winning acting to show you any respect.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. His gaze remains steady, almost unnerving. “Then pull it off. I’ll get you an acting teacher if that’s what you wish. Whatever it takes to keep up this appearance.”

“Unbelievable.”

The word escapes my lips like a venomous sigh. He heads to the wardrobe and begins to button up another shirt. As he fastens the final button, he pauses, his fingers lingering.

“Your life is still your own, Aria,” he says calmly. “What you make of it now depends on how you act. Don’t test me.”

His calmness fuels my anger further. He doesn’t look flustered by the kiss. If anything, he’s mocking me, reveling in his dominance, making it clear that my life outside of this room belongs to him. My world is shifting too fast—my freedom, my choices, my dignity—all ripped away in a single day. And he has the audacity to stand there and tell me to behave?

He begins to turn, his hand reaching for the doorknob.

I can’t stop myself. I pull off the one thing that has truly gotten under his skin.

“Coward.”

The word slips out before I even realize it.

He pauses, his back to me, his hand resting on the door. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. My heart pounds in my chest, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.

Just when I start to believe he didn’t register what I said, he turns slowly, his hand sliding away from the doorknob. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and a shiver runs down my spine, the same way it did last night.

It’s an intoxicating mix—fear and lust—one that coils tightly around my thoughts, making it hard to breathe.