Page 18

ALESSIO

I tap the steering wheel as I drive through the quieter part of Brooklyn, the city finally giving us a moment of peace. No security detail tonight. No press flashing bulbs in my face. Just us. Me and Sophie.

The charity event yesterday went better than anyone expected, flawless on the surface, a PR dream. But the part that keeps replaying in my head?

Sophie. Laughing. Letting loose. Her heels kicked off under the table, another glass of wine in her hand, her arm brushing mine like we belonged together.

For a few hours, it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like... us. Real. Uncomplicated. And fuck, if it didn’t feel dangerously perfect.

I glance at her now in the passenger seat, hair pulled up, neck exposed, that short little dress hugging every curve like it was stitched onto her skin.

She's showing off way too much for my self-control.

Her legs are crossed, her smirk teasing, and the gravity of her pulls me in.

It’s not just lust. It’s need. It’s that aching, inevitable slide into something I can’t walk away from.

We end up at this hole-in-the-wall pizza joint I’ve loved since high school. Faded awning, flickering neon sign, and a linoleum floor that’s seen better decades.

Sophie eyes the cracked vinyl booth like it might bite her.

“This is your idea of a date?”

I grin as I slide into the seat across from her. “Trust me, dolcezza . You’re about to meet the love of your life. And she’s a slice of pepperoni.”

When the pizza lands, greasy, bubbling, glorious, she takes one hesitant bite. Then moans.

Loudly.

My grip on the plastic cup full of Coke nearly snaps.

She dabs her mouth delicately with a napkin, like she didn’t just kill me. Like she didn’t just moan in a way that will haunt my dreams.

My pulse is still racing, my thoughts completely derailed, and she’s over there acting like she didn’t just melt my brain with one bite.

“Okay, fine. That was... obscenely good.”

“Told you.” I smirk. “You’ve been living a lie. All that fancy wood-fired flatbread crap? Fraudulent.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Her real smile. Not her professional smile. Not the controlled one she wears like armor. This one’s easy. Unfiltered.

“You’re such a food snob.”

“And you’ve clearly never had real pizza before. So, I’m changing your life, one slice at a time.”

We fall into that rhythm I never knew I missed, snark for snark, sass for sass.

I tell her about my high school pudgy phase, how I was the chunky Italian kid no one looked at twice until my voice dropped and I shot up six inches in one summer.

“You? Chunky?” She laughs, eyes sparkling. “I need proof.”

“There’s a yearbook somewhere with a tragic bowl cut and enough baby fat to open a bakery.”

She leans over the table, chin propped on her hand. “God, I bet you were adorable.”

“Nope. Just sweaty and always hungry.”

“Some things haven’t changed.” She nudges my foot under the table.

I glance at where her foot lingers, deliberate, teasing, and meet her gaze.

She laughs, full and loud and completely unguarded, and it hits me low and hard, like a sucker punch to the chest.

That sound could bring me to my knees.

For a second, nothing feels complicated. Just her, and me, and a greasy table between us. No threats. No headlines. Just this.

And damn, I could get used to this. I crave it.

After dinner, we wander the streets, the kind of walk you only take when the night feels too perfect to end.

The city’s cooled down, the breeze carrying the scent of rain on concrete and something fried from the bodega down the block.

Her hand brushes mine. Once. Twice.

I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but it makes my pulse skip anyway.

She tips her face up toward the city lights. “You used to come down here a lot?”

I chuckle. “Too much. Mostly trying to impress girls with my bad taste in beer and worse fake IDs.”

Sophie’s lips quirk. “You’re telling me you were once a cliché?”

“Oh, full-blown. I once puked behind that dumpster trying to prove I could chug malt liquor. Then kissed the wrong girl in a dark alley.”

She actually stumbles from laughing so hard. “You’re making this up.”

“Wish I was. Denver still calls me Swamp Mouth because of it.”

She leans into me a little, bumping my shoulder. “That’s horrifying. But also... kind of endearing?”

I glance down at her.

Hair pulled up, cheeks flushed from laughter.

I don’t remember ever feeling this way just walking next to someone. Like something is humming just beneath my skin. Like I’m waiting for her hand to find mine again. And this time, I won’t pretend it’s an accident.

So, I take it. No words, no joke. I just lace my fingers through hers.

She doesn’t pull away.

Instead, her thumb brushes mine.

We stop by a boutique.

Sophie looks at me with a glint in her eyes that makes me think she just likes torturing me. “Mind if we go inside? I need something ‘PR-appropriate’ for the next event.”

I nod and we step inside.

I settle onto a velvet bench, all rich burgundy and gold trim, and force myself to sit still, though every cell in my body is vibrating with anticipation.

She’s been laughing all night, that soft, breathy kind that punches straight through my chest. And soon enough she’ll go to the other side of the dressing room wall, close enough to touch, but impossibly out of reach. She’ll take off her clothes, and I wish I could help her.

My palms are already itching.

I pretend to check my phone. Pretend I’m not watching her like a starving man.

It’s torture. Sweet, slow, exquisite torture.

My jaw clenches.

She disappears into the dressing room, and I do my best not to follow.

Then her voice floats out, sweet and laced with danger. “I need a second opinion.”

I stand, walking to her changing room, expecting a sleek, black dress. Sophisticated. Tasteful.

What do I get?

A punch to the gut.

She steps out in a sheer, lacy lingerie that barely covers anything, a blazer tossed over her shoulders like an afterthought. Her eyes are all challenge and confidence.

“Too much?” Her head tilts, as if she doesn’t already know she’s wrecking me.

My throat goes dry. “Not even close.”

Her lips curve slowly, wicked and amused. “Hmm. I thought you’d say that.”

I step closer, voice low. “You do know if we weren’t in public, I’d have you pinned against that mirror right now.”

She raises a brow. “And ruin this very expensive lingerie?”

“I’d take my time peeling it off first. And I’d make damn sure you begged me not to stop.”

Her breath catches, just a flicker, but I notice it. Feel it.

She shifts her weight, the lace riding higher on her thigh. “Good thing we’re not alone, then.”

My eyes lock on hers. “Yeah. Good thing.”

But the air between us says otherwise.

Her hand slowly makes its way toward me, her fingertips grazing the fabric above my dick.

Grinning, she traces the outline of my hardening length.

A rush of blood makes its way down south.

She pulls me inside the changing room, the door clicking shut behind us, and suddenly, we’re in our own little world of shadows and sharp breath.

Her back hits the mirror, and I barely have time to groan before her mouth is on mine. Hot, hungry, commanding.

It’s not a kiss, it’s a damn takeover. And I’m not fighting it.

Her hands are already on my belt, fingers working fast.

“You going to just stand there?” she murmurs, lips ghosting my jaw.

“Fuck.” I slide my hands down the lace clinging to her thighs.

She laughs, low and wicked, and pulls a condom from her purse like it’s a challenge.

“Make sure that door is locked, we don’t want an audience.”

I look back at the door.

Door locked. Check

“Hold this for a minute,” Her lips curve into a smirk as she places the wrapped condom toward my mouth, so I hold it between my lips.

Before I can process what is happening, she ties her hair in a bun and drops to her knees.

The blazer slips off her shoulders, pooling at her feet behind her.

Her hands fumble for my belt, her fingers deft as she unbuckles it.

My breath hitches as she unbuttons my jeans and unzips them, pulling them down to my thighs.

Her gaze never leaves mine.

She kisses the crown of head through my boxers, her lips slowly pressing against me.

I let out a quiet moan.

When she’s done with the teasing, she pulls down my boxers.

My cock springs free, and she smirks as she traces the ridges of my head with her thumb.

“It’s perfect,” she murmurs, her voice low and teasing. “You’re so thick and hard for me.”

Her touch is light at first, her thumb rubbing the underside of my cock.

I groan, my hands tangling in her hair as she strokes me slowly.

“I want to pleasure every inch of you.” Her eyes are still on me, waiting to see me break.

Then faster, she fists me, her rhythm deliberate and intoxicating.

When she leans in, her tongue flicks at the precum oozing from my tip, and I bite back a moan, my head falling back against the wall.

My body tenses as she takes me into her mouth.

Her lips are warm and wet, and her tongue swirls around my head as she sucks my tip.

The condom I hold between my lips falls onto the carpet beneath us.

I hiss as my hands grip her shoulders, my fingers digging into her skin.

She hums, the vibration sending shivers through my cock, then all the way down my spine.

I fight to keep quiet, my breath coming in long gasps.

She takes me deeper into her mouth, her head bobbing back and forth.

“Shit, Soph.” My voice turns raspy.

She pulls back, her eyes dark with desire as she strokes my hardened length, slick with her saliva. Her other hand cups my balls. She works me in unison with both of her hands.

“Touch yourself,” I command, my voice rough. “I want to see you wet for me.”

Her smirk returns, cocky, teasing, and she obeys, slipping her hand between her thighs while she keeps stroking my cock, slow and deliberate.

Her fingers slide over her slick folds, dipping in as her eyes lock on mine like a challenge.