Page 17

SOPHIE

I lean against the kitchen island, one hand gripping my coffee, the other scrolling through a flood of emails I’m too distracted to answer.

From the bathroom, Alessio hums off-key, loud, ridiculous, and completely unbothered.

I should be annoyed. I should be working. Instead, I’m wondering whether he’ll come out shirtless again.

Somehow, in between media cleanups and investor calls, I’ve started stocking his favorite cereal, ironing his collars, and arguing over tie colors like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

And ever since the night we fell into bed together, I can’t stop thinking about how he made me feel. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. The way he made me come, hard and fast and with a depth that shattered something inside me.

No one’s ever touched me like that before, like my pleasure was the only thing he wanted in the world.

It was a mistake. Right?

But if it was... why do I want to make it again?

When the hell did pretending start to feel this real?

Alessio emerges from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, water still glistening in his hair.

To my disappointment, he's wearing a shirt, barely. It clings to his chest like a second skin, damp in places, outlining every hard muscle beneath.

He’s barefoot, cocky, and freshly showered, smelling like soap and trouble.

Without a word, he grabs a spoon, dips it into my yogurt, and licks it like he owns the damn thing.

“You like having me here.” His eyes gleam as he scoops another bite, this time slower.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I arch a brow. “In your dreams.”

He leans against the counter, gaze dragging over my body with zero shame. “I’ve had those dreams, dolcezza . You were a lot less clothed in them.”

I roll my eyes, turning away before he sees the evidence of the heat crawling up my neck and the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You’re delusional.”

“Yet, here I am. Shirt on, yogurt stolen, living rent-free in your head.”

I should throw him out. I really should.

Instead, I hand him the granola.

We’re not playing house. Not really. But the way he moves around my kitchen like he’s always belonged here? It’s starting to feel dangerously close.

***

I meet Halie at a café downtown, grateful for a break from my chaotic inbox and the even more chaotic man living in my apartment.

She takes one look at me, all messy bun, flushed cheeks, a cardigan I definitely didn’t mean to pair with stilettos, and smirks.

“Well, well, well. Somebody’s glowing.”

I snort. “You're imagining things. It's probably all the blue light my face soaks up from being in front of the computer all day.”

“Sure, babe. That or you’ve been thoroughly and repeatedly dicked down.”

“Halie!” I hiss, glancing around.

The barista’s trying not to laugh as he pours oat milk into someone’s latte.

She leans back with a satisfied grin. “So…?”

I sigh. “Fine. We had sex. Once.”

She arches a brow.

“It’s not what you think. It’s complicated." I shrug.

"Anyway, all we talk about is me. How's everything been at the club?"

She stirs her espresso. “Work’s the usual. Oh, we’re interviewing a new bouncer who looks like he stepped out of a UFC cage. So, that’ll be fun.”

I laugh. “You always did find danger sexy.”

Halie flashes me a look. “Takes one to know one. You’re living with Alessio freaking Marchetti. Remind me again why you haven’t let me help you tame him?”

“Because I don’t need a whip and collar,” I mutter into my cup.

“Hah, you’re already halfway there. You’ve got him housebroken and everything. Don’t worry babe, we’ll facetime later. My tips are of the visual kind.” She shoots me a wink.

I shake my head, trying not to smile.

Then she softens. “But seriously, you like him.”

I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out.

Because she’s not wrong.

“It’s probably just the adrenaline,” I say quietly. “The danger. The proximity. We’re stuck in close quarters, sharing everything, going to social events.”

“Or maybe it’s the first time someone’s actually made you feel safe. And seen. And wanted for more than your job title.”

I stare into my cappuccino, heart thudding.

“I’ve seen that look before, Soph. And it’s not lust. It’s fear of falling.”

***

By the time I get back, it’s a little past ten. The apartment is dim and quiet, except for the soft flicker of the TV and the clink of ice against glass.

Alessio’s stretched across the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding a lowball of whiskey. His shirt is rumpled, collar loose, and his eyes are half-lidded from something that’s not just the drink.

I drop my bag by the door and kick off my heels. “You good?”

He hums. “Better now.”

I hesitate before settling beside him, leaving enough space between us to keep things safe… or pretend to.

But safe feels like a lie lately.

“Can I ask you something?” I have to do this before I lose my nerve.

He shifts, eyes narrowing slightly. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m serious.”

“Uh-oh.” He sits up and flashes a grin, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I need a lawyer?”

I nudge his knee with mine. “I’m being real.”

He groans, scrubs a hand through his hair. “Alright, hit me.”

“Why me?”

He stiffens.

“What?”

“You could have anyone,” I continue, heart pounding now. “So, why are you trying so hard with me?”

He laughs once, short, humorless. “Is this a trick question? Because if it is, I’m going to need a second whiskey.”

“Alessio.”

He sets the glass down, leans forward, elbows on his knees. His voice is quieter now.

“Because… you call me on my shit. Because you don’t flinch when I’m messy. Because when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I don’t feel like I have to."

My breath catches.

And the weight of his honesty crashes over me like a wave, stealing the air from my lungs.

I grip my knees, suddenly unsteady, and force myself not to look away.

I don’t know what to say to that, what to do with the truth sitting heavy between us.

I want to brush it off, make a joke, keep things light. But I can’t. Not when my heart’s racing like this.

So, I do the only thing that feels right.

I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder.

He shifts his body so I'm nuzzled into his chest. He wraps his arms around me like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

As I begin to fall asleep in his arms, I let myself believe this could be something real.

***

I stand in my bedroom, surrounded by a battlefield of potential outfits.

There’s another charity event on the schedule, something boring, glossy, and far too public, but I can’t focus on that. Not when everything I own suddenly feels wrong. Too stiff. Too corporate. Too not-me.

I pull on a silk camisole and blazer combination, planning to test it with the heels I stashed by the front door.

Maybe Alessio can help me decide.

I walk into the living room. “Alessio, can you…”

He looks up from the couch.

And freezes.

And I realize why.

Did I do this on purpose or really not realize that I was wearing next to nothing?

His gaze drops slowly, trailing from the lapels of my blazer to the hem that barely kisses the top of my thighs. His mouth parts slightly as he eyes my lacey panties. Then closes. Then parts again.

“You trying to kill me, dolcezza ?” His voice is low. Rough, with a hint of something darker threading through it.

His fists clench at his sides, like it’s taking everything in him not to close the distance between us.

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to act unfazed as his eyes are devouring me.

“It’s just an outfit.”

He stands. “That’s not an outfit. That’s foreplay.”

Heat races through me, pooling between my thighs.

“I’m not changing.” I lift my chin.

He takes a step closer. “Didn’t ask you to. But I think you should have something to cover up the lace undies. That won't go over well at the charity event.”

Another step. Then his hand reaches out, grazing my exposed thigh and wrapping around to my ass. “Fuck, dolcezza. The things you do to me.”

I swallow hard, the air thick with want. “You better get used to it.”

His eyes flick to my lips. “That a promise?”

I smirk, pushing past him toward the mirror near the door. “Depends how well you behave.”

Behind me, his stare is as tangible as his hands. Heavy. Hot. Possessive.

This game we’re playing is a dangerous one.

And I’m not sure I want it to stop.

As we stand side by side at the mirror by the door, Alessio adjusts the cuffs of his navy suit jacket.

The material molds to his frame like it was stitched by the devil himself, sleek, dark, and sinfully tailored. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric just right, and the crisp white shirt beneath makes his olive skin look even warmer.

His jaw is freshly shaven, lips a shade I’ve become too familiar with, and his cologne wraps around me in a way that feels... intentional. Disarming.

God help me, he looks like the kind of man who ruins you and makes you say thank you, and then ruins you all over again just for the pleasure of hearing it twice.

My breath hitches, heat creeping up my chest, because no one should be allowed to look that good in a suit and still smell like sin and cinnamon.

Then he meets my gaze in the mirror.

“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says softly.

I freeze.

Not because he says it like flirtation.

Because he says it like a truth.

And it scares the hell out of me. Because I want to believe it.

My throat tightens.

I look away, but not before I see the way he’s watching me.

Like I’m the only thing he’s sure of in a world that keeps changing.

And suddenly, the line between pretending and wanting blurs again, softening beneath the weight of his gaze and the way my pulse jumps every time he calls me his.

If this is an illusion, it’s the most dangerous one I’ve ever wanted to believe.