Page 5

“Chiara,” he says again, his voice lower this time, worry softening his eyes. “You’re trembling.”

He reaches out a little farther—just enough to let me know he’s there, if I need him.

I take his hand, warm and steady, while my fingers shake like hell.

My whole life has been about doing the right thing. Double shifts. Paid bills. Playing it safe while my sister burns the world down.

And for what?

So I can come home to a shitty apartment, cheap microwaved chicken, and get a knife to the throat for my efforts?

No one’s ever stepped in for me.

Not when foster parents locked us in closets.

Not when I dragged myself through double shifts with pneumonia.

Not when Chiara’s chaos became my responsibility.

But now—he did.

“Thank you,” I whisper. And somehow, despite everything… I mean it.

His dark eyes search mine, and I can’t help but wonder—what does he see in me to make him watch over me like some kind of guardian angel?

Or maybe it’s not me he sees at all. Maybe it’s Chiara.

Has he met her? He knows her name. Knows she’s in deep.

Does it matter?

He’s gently caressing my hand now, and I’m already forgetting the blood on the floor, the broken furniture, the way everything spiraled. Forgetting the debt. Forgetting that my sister’s nowhere to be found.

The heat from his fingers sinks into me, makes everything blur—like I’m floating in this thick, heady fog where all I can think about is his hands on my skin.

I want him to tear off my clothes and press me up against the wall.

I want him to make me forget my name—Aria, Chiara, whoever the hell I’m supposed to be.

The thought should scare me.

I don’t bring strange men home.

I don’t have one-night stands.

Especially not with dangerous men who just wrecked three intruders like it was nothing.

But he’s standing so close now, and I notice the flecks of brown in his green eyes, the crinkles at the corners like worn leather. He’s older—maybe ten years older. I’ve never been with someone like him.

His thumb traces slow, hypnotic circles on my wrist, each one sending sparks up my arm.

“What happens now?” I ask, my voice barely above a breath.

He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from my face.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says. “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll get your door fixed, too.”

Before I do something stupid, I think—running would’ve been the smart choice.

But when he reaches out, his fingers tracing the spot where the knife had been?—

I stay.

Fear should take over.

Instead, the heat of his touch consumes me.

I should have stopped it, turned away when his fingers skim my arm, tracing the bruises left behind by the men who tried to take me.

I should have pulled back when his hand slid up, cupping the side of my neck, his thumb brushing the rapid pulse at my throat.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because for the first time in forever, I feel safe.

Not because the world isn’t dangerous.

He is even more dangerous.

But I’m not afraid of him.

I’m afraid of how much I want him.

His fingers linger on my cheek, and I lean into the touch without meaning to. We’re inches apart now. I can see the stubble on his jaw, a tiny scar near his temple, the way his pupils dilate as they lock onto my lips.

I can’t pretend anymore. He’s too close. Too dangerous. And I want to fall apart in his hands.

My lips part instinctively. The tension crackles between us. His chest heaves—he’s fighting not to lose it.

I don’t think. I just act. My hands grab the lapels of his jacket, pulling him toward me as I rise onto my tiptoes. Our lips crash, and the shock in his breath makes me want to take it deeper, darker.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he devours me.

One hand tangles in my hair, the other grips my lower back, pulling me into him until I feel every hard inch of his body pressed against mine.

His tongue slides against my lips in a silent command, and I open to him, greedy for more.

My fingers thread through his hair. He drags his mouth down my neck, and I shudder when his teeth sink into the curve of it. My body arches against his—instinctive, demanding.

“Fuck,” I breathe, and he grins—just a little—before his tongue invades my mouth like he owns it, like he’s been starving.

His hands slide to my waist, squeezing tight—so tight my toes curl—then he starts walking me back until my spine hits the wall and his body cages me in.

I can feel him, hard against my stomach, and the rush of heat that follows pools low between my legs.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my lips.

I can’t. Instead, I whisper, “Don’t.”

And he doesn’t.

His hands are everywhere—skimming my sides, cupping my breasts through my T-shirt, gripping my hips.

He shrugs off his jacket. I fumble with his tie and shirt buttons until he pulls the shirt off with a smirk, revealing a tanned, muscular chest scattered with scars.

Then suddenly, he’s on me—yanking my T-shirt over my head. His eyes darken the moment they land on my plain cotton bra.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look like sin.”

I almost laugh—because I’m not. I’m ordinary. But the way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful.

His hands slide down to cup my ass, and in one smooth motion, he lifts me off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist, our kiss never breaking, still hot and urgent.

He carries me like I weigh nothing down the short hallway to my bedroom.

He tosses me onto the bed. I bounce once before he follows, crawling over me with predatory intent.

His hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just there, claiming—and the possessiveness in his eyes sets me on fire.

“You’re driving me insane. I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you.”

His hand slides beneath my back and unhooks my bra, exposing me completely. Then his mouth crashes down on my nipple—biting, sucking—brutal in a way that makes my back arch.

I gasp, not from pain, but from the way it sends heat shooting straight between my thighs.

His teeth graze the sensitive peak, just enough to sting, and then he pauses—watching me squirm beneath him.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Tell me exactly how you want me.”

“Rough,” I whisper, breath hitching. “I want to ache when I think about you tomorrow.”

He doesn’t disappoint.

He moves to the other breast, sucking so hard I know I’ll be marked—and I want that. I want to wear the evidence of him.

My fingers dig into his back, nails raking trails into his skin.

“More,” I whisper.

He lets out a raw sound, low and desperate.

Then he raises his head and looks down at me like I’m a puzzle he intends to break apart piece by piece.

“If you want me to stop, say it now. Because I’m one second away from fucking devouring you.”

I try not to whimper at the pleasure his words pour over me.

“No,” I say, voice choked. “Don’t stop… please.”

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face, turning his beauty into something feral.

“I don’t believe in fate—but you walked into that café like you were delivered to me. Serving coffee like you hadn’t just started a war in my head.”

He leans in, voice low, thick with something darker.

“Do you even know what you do to me, Chiara? The things you put in my head… they’re not the kind a man can walk away from.”

He calls me Chiara again.

I should tell him—I’m not her. I’m Aria.

But the second I do, he’ll stop.

Stop telling me the things I make him feel.

Stop looking at me like I’ve wrecked his world.

And right now? I need that.

I need something that feels this good.

Chiara’s taken enough. She’s not taking this, too.

He unbuttons my jeans, slides the zipper down so agonizingly slow that my legs begin to tremble.

“I think about your mouth,” he murmurs, tugging the denim down my hips. “Your taste.”

The fabric hits the floor along with the rest of my sanity.

His mouth follows, trailing heat as he kisses his way down my body, each touch branding fire into my skin.

Then he grips my thighs and spreads them—wide.

So fucking wide I let out a whimper.

He slides the panties down and tosses them aside. His eyes devour me, and his hand moves between my thighs as he slides his fingers through my clit. His fingers, cold to the touch, cut me with pleasure, and I writhe beneath his touch.

“You’re soaked,” he says, his voice rough. “Absolutely soaked for me.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Touch me. Now.”

Let him wreck me. I want it all.

I don’t care if it’s a mistake. I don’t care if it breaks me.

Right now, I want the man whose stare shuts mouths and weakens knees to lose control all over me.

Do I want him? No—I crave him.

He’s fire and danger wrapped in control, and I want to burn.

He lowers his head, and the second his tongue makes contact with my clit, I fucking scream.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s filthy, wet, and possessive—his mouth on me like he’s starved for it.

He licks me in long, greedy strokes, his tongue broad and heavy as it drags over the swollen bundle of nerves.

My hips roll up uncontrollably, moaning like a goddamn porn star, but I don’t care.

There’s no shame here—just raw, naked need.

Then his fingers slide into me—one, then two—and he fucks me with them, curling up hard to hit that impossible, perfect spot that makes my back arch off the bed.

“Fuck—right there,” I choke out, fists yanking at the sheets as his mouth sucks hard on my clit, obscene, wet sounds echoing in the room.

He groans low in his throat, like he loves how I taste, how I sound. And when he hums against my clit, that vibration makes my entire body seize.

His hand clamps down on my thigh, spreading me even wider as I arch into his mouth, chasing more, needing more.

“That’s it,” he says, his lips brushing my slick skin. “Let go, Chiara. Come for me.”

Chiara. The name shouldn’t make my stomach tighten like this. It shouldn’t feel like a spark instead of a sting. But I’m too far gone to care. Too close.

He thrusts his fingers deeper, tongue flattening hard over my clit, and that’s it.

I shatter.