Page 8

ALESSIO

I’m spread out on the leather couch, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on my hips, one arm slung behind my head. Bored out of my mind.

The ceiling fan spins above me, mocking me, slow, steady, smug. Like it knows I haven’t gotten off in days.

I’m cooped up in this apartment like a goddamn prisoner. And the worst part?

My warden is the hottest woman I’ve ever touched. And I can’t stop thinking about doing it again.

My phone buzzes. Again.

I glance at the screen. Another message. Another photo.

The two girls from the other night, their legs tangled, lips parted, their fingers lingering where I should want my face buried. And they're wearing nothing but promises.

They want me back. Want to be used. Ruined. Forgotten.

Or maybe it's the type of lifestyle my money can give them.

I toss the phone aside.

I can’t even get hard for that anymore.

Not when the real problem is walking around this apartment in tiny shorts and no bra, looking like every filthy fantasy I’ve ever had.

Sophie Henderson.

The woman who made me break every rule I had the night we didn’t talk about. And the one who’s now pretending it never happened.

But I remember everything.

How she tasted. How she moaned my name. How her nails dug into my shoulders when she came apart in my arms.

And now I’m stuck. No sex. No release. No escape.

Just me. Her. And the goddamn tension pressing in from every wall of this apartment.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back, the leather of the couch creaking beneath me.

Maybe if I focus hard enough, I can remember what it felt like to have options. Freedom. Control.

I drag a hand down my abs, the tight coil of frustration burning low in my gut. I’m already half-hard thinking of her, and I haven’t even touched myself yet.

I palm myself lazily, gripping my semi-erection.

Sophie.

That damn T-shirt riding up when she reaches for the top shelf, exposing a flash of smooth skin and the soft curve of her lower back, enough to make my fingers twitch and my pulse spike.

The way those shorts hug her ass when she walks away from me like she doesn’t feel the heat radiating off my stare.

My hand moves faster, the fantasy warping.

Sophie, flushed and breathless, straddling me on this very couch. Her thighs tight around my hips, lips red and swollen from my kisses.

Her head thrown back, hair a mess of wild curls. That little butterfly tattoo on her hip fluttering while she rides every inch of my cock.

Long. Agonizing. Strokes. Her ass bouncing in my lap.

She’s moaning my name, back arching as I thrust into her so deep.

My breath comes faster, a bead of precum at the tip of my cock as I thrust.

The line between memory and fantasy blurs.

Was that night real? Or am I just fucking desperate?

Either way, I’m too far gone to stop now.

I pump harder, imagining the bounce of her tits with every grind, the press of her thighs shaking against my hips as she comes apart again and again.

The little tattoo on her hip stares back at me again. The same tattoo I kissed once and never forgot. It’s burning into my memory all over again.

She’s looking down at me now, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, like she knows she’s got me. Like she’s not just in my head, she’s in my fucking bloodstream.

Fuck me harder, Alessio.

I groan low in my throat, pleasure and frustration crashing together.

If I don’t bury myself in her soon, I might lose my goddamn mind.

Just as I hit the rhythm I need, fist tight, hips arching off the couch, the bathroom door creaks open and she comes out.

“Alessio, I swear, if you leave the sink like a flood zone again—”

Sophie.

She stops. Freezes.

So do I.

Well, not all of me. One very important part of me is still standing proud like a fucking Roman monument.

She catches the full view.

Hand. Cock. Mid-stroke.

Time doesn’t just slow, it slams to a stop.

Every molecule in the room vibrates with shock.

Her eyes widen. Her gaze drops. Her breath hitches.

I should be mortified. I should cover up.

I don’t.

“Jesus Christ!” She whips around so fast her ponytail smacks the doorframe.

I grin like the devil himself. “Hey, don’t blame me. This is what happens when you enforce a no-sex policy and strut around like temptation in tiny shorts. This is a self-inflicted wound, dolcezza .”

“Are you insane? There are laws against this!”

“Oh, come on, like you didn’t look.” I grin. “Next time, maybe knock?”

She mutters a string of curses, colorful ones, too, as she storms down the hall and slams her bedroom door like it personally offended her.

I exhale a ragged laugh, still flushed, still half-hard, still picturing the way her eyes locked on my cock for just a second too long.

Worth. Every. Damn. Second.

The apartment goes quiet, except for the sound of pacing. Muffled, frantic pacing from behind her bedroom door.

She’s spiraling. I can feel it.

Probably shouting into a pillow. Probably pretending she didn’t just stare at me like I was dessert with a side of sin.

And I know what I saw.

That glance? That wasn’t shock. That was want. Hunger, even if she’ll never admit it.

Sophie Henderson, PR ice queen, no-nonsense power skirt, looked at me like she wanted to devour me and slap me at the same time.

I drag a hand through my hair, still pulsing with leftover adrenaline.

Fuck, I live for this.

She can fake outrage all she wants, but her breath caught. Her pupils blew wide. And she hasn’t come back out since.

She looked and liked what she saw.

Just like she did that night all those years ago. Before we crossed the line. Before she decided I was a mistake.

She wants to believe she’s in control. That she can file me under “dangerous detour” and walk away clean.

But she can’t.

Because the thing about Sophie is, when she wants something, really wants it, she burns for it.

And I plan to watch her burn. Maybe even light the match myself.

The apartment is quiet tonight. But not the peaceful kind of quiet. It’s the kind that settles in your bones and makes your thoughts louder than they should be. The kind that makes every breath feel like it carries weight.

I walk past her door once. Then again. Slower the second time.

By the third, I stop.

Something about standing here, outside her room, her world, makes my chest tight, like I’m about to cross a line I’ve been toeing since the day I moved in.

Should I knock?

Say something?

Apologize?

But what would I even say?

Sorry I made you want me again? Sorry I caught you looking?

Sorry I still think about that night…and every fucking second since?

My jaw clenches.

No.

Sophie Henderson isn’t the kind of girl you apologize to for wanting. She’s the kind you earn. The kind who doesn’t flinch when you push but pushes back harder.

I like that about her.

Hell, maybe I need it.

She doesn't need apologies. She needs honesty. Realness. Fire.

And I’m all of those things.

But maybe what scares me most is how she sees through it. Through me .

She calls me reckless, cocky, impossible. But when she looks at me, really looks at me, it’s like she sees something worth saving. That’s what fucks me up the most.

She’s not wrong.

The tension between us is not just lust. It’s a dare. Unspoken but undeniable.

Every glance. Every argument. And every time she lays down a rule, it feels less like a boundary and more like a challenge, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll cross it.

It’s all a game she’s daring me to lose.

But I’ve never played to lose.

So, I turn away from her door and head to mine dragging a hand through my hair, the air thick behind me, her scent still lingering somewhere in the hall.

She has no idea what I’m willing to do to break her rules.

And this?

This is just the beginning.

I crawl into bed, still hard, still thinking about her.

The sheets are cool against my skin.

Her scent lingers in the hallway, but it’s her voice echoing in my head that keeps my pulse ticking too fast.

I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, cock aching, every breath heavy with restraint.

She thinks this game between us is manageable, containable.

She has no idea she’s already lost control.

And if I have it my way, next time she won’t be the one walking away.

I stare up at the ceiling, the room dim and silent, but my mind isn’t.

Her voice. Her gasp. That look in her eyes before she ran.

She’s trying to fight it. Pretend this tension between us doesn’t exist.

But I’ve seen what’s under that armor. I’ve heard how she sounds when she falls apart.

And in a few days, we’re stepping out together. In public.

In front of cameras, investors, Bratva eyes. Every last vulture waiting to feast.

And if I put my hand on her back, and she smiles like I’m not the man she just caught stroking his cock on the couch?

That’s when this game stops being fun.

That’s when it becomes war.

She thinks she’s the one with control?

I’ve already decided how this ends. With her screaming my name and forgetting every damn rule she ever made.