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“So?” She takes a slow sip, eyes flashing with something dangerous.

“I’m sure he’s still a fucking menace to anyone’s lady parts.

” Then she glances at me, head tilting, her voice dropping into something silkier.

“The things I know that man would do to me if I wanted… I don’t even think I’d tell him no.

I’ll just let him take it as far as he wants. ”

My stomach knots, but I scoff anyway. Deflection. As always. I shouldn’t be thinking about it, those gloved hands tight on my throat, holding me there, then loosening and clenching again. Tighter. Like a test. A lesson. A claim.

Gianna’s lips twist like she sees it on my face. “Reminiscing, I see. Remember that time you ‘accidentally’ dropped your towel?”

“Fuck off!” I shove her arm, heat rushing to my face. “I was barely seventeen. He didn’t even look. You’re the one who’s been screwed since he walked into our lives, drooling over him at Sophia’s pool parties.”

Sophia. Her name guts me quickly and deeply. I focus on my coffee cup, the steam curling like ghostly fingers.

Gianna’s smile falters as we realize it might be too soon to joke about this. “Yeah. I wonder how things would’ve turned out if she were here now. Losing her that way wrecked us all.”

“Wrecked him worse,” I murmur. “She was his world.”

“And you were hers. Full circle.” Until I fucked it up.

But I don’t say that out loud.

We finish our coffees, and Gianna drags me to her car, where she continues ranting about seating charts.

I don’t hear her. My mind is still stuck looping on him.

That suit. Those tattoos. The way he moves, like he owns everything he touches.

Like he could crush you, ruin you, and you’d beg for it anyway.

Back at my apartment, night falls fast. The place is a dump with cracked walls, a sink that never stops dripping, and a mattress that groans like it’s dying. But it’s all I am able to afford till I find a job.

Gianna offered to let me stay with her and Gerald, but I don’t want to impose, not when they just got their apartment. Mom’s been in a nursing home since she started forgetting things more often, and even keeping her there has put a huge dent in our pockets.

After high school, I planned to take a gap year before college, but then after the accident, everything changed, and my mental state was a mess. Somehow, going back just never felt like a priority.

Maybe one day I will, but for now, just getting through each day is enough.

After helping me settle in, Gianna disappears to fuss over her veil, leaving me alone.

I peel off my dress, the yellow fabric hitting the floor in a heap. My skin’s sticky from the day. Shower time.

Hot water pounds my shoulders as steam fogs the tiny bathroom. But as I close my eyes, Adriano’s there. As he always seems to be. It’s not a memory or fantasy. But a fucking haunting. His presence coils around me, and my body lights up—hot, needy, alive.

I’m pissed I didn’t go after him today, but damn, I’ve missed him. It’s twisted, three years apart should’ve been enough to kill this. But nothing dulls it. Nothing stops the way my body aches for him. Craves him.

My fingers skim down, slow, and my stomach flutters. Lower. I’m already wet and not just from the water.

"Fuck," I whisper, circling my clit, the pressure mounting.

Like an apparition emerging from the darkness, I see him. First, he appears with rainwater dripping from his skin. Then, he steps into the shower. Finally, his low, rasped command whispers against my ear as his hand grabs me roughly.

"Don’t stop, Penelope."

I don’t.

My breath shatters. My knees buckle. One hand slaps against the tile, keeping me upright as I picture his front pressing into my back, his inked skin against mine, the scent of him drowning me. He’d pin me there, hold me down, make me take it—make me feel how much he owns me.

"Adriano," I gasp, fingers speeding up, the pressure cresting, burning, consuming. I see him, feel him, hear him. His growl, his breath, the weight of his hands forcing me apart. Touching me everywhere.

Guilt tears through me when my mind takes me back to that night. But my body is a traitor, too far gone, too desperate to care. Then Sophia’s face flashes through my mind, and I freeze.

My dead best friend's dad.

Her dad. Her fucking dad.

Life’s a cruel bastard. Dangles what you can’t have, then laughs while you burn.

The water goes cold. My body jerks, the pleasure vanishing into ice.

I stumble out, the water dripping from my skin, and I drag a towel around me.

My legs tremble as I collapse onto the mattress, the springs groaning under me.

The room isn’t completely dark and the streetlight slices through the blinds, casting dim streaks of light, breaking through just enough to keep the darkness at bay.

I try to sleep, but it won’t come. Not with his name still caught in my throat.

My hands shake as I reach for my phone.

And I give in.

It’s not wrong. It can’t be. Everyone’s online these days, from pictures, to articles. We all have pieces of our lives scattered like breadcrumbs. If he didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t exist for me to find.

Every obsession starts somewhere. Every girl with a filthy little secret does this.

So why does it feel like sin?

Adriano Vieri.

I type his name fast, desperate. The first image hits like a fist to my ribs, those gray-green eyes cutting through a gala shot, so sharp and soulless. Detached. A man who doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter, doesn’t belong to anyone.

My breath catches. I draw the sheets up and hold my phone tighter. I should stop. I don’t.

Because I’ve wanted him forever.

Not in the harmless way girls want things. Not in a way that fades. I’ve wanted him in ways I wasn’t supposed to, in ways that rooted deep, in ways that made me feel wrong. So many stolen glances that I yearned for.

I was young, but not blind. Not stupid.

He never looked at me. Not once.

But that never stopped me from waiting for the moment he would.

I scroll, starving.

I go through the motions with my phone, from grocery shopping online, to answering Gianna’s texts, and back to pretending I’m not looking him up again. Pretending I’m not thinking about him. But I am. It’s a sickness, gnawing, and dragging me back to him.

I keep replaying that moment in my head. Should I have gone outside? Would he have recognized me? Why did the sight of him make it hard to breathe?

I should sleep, but my mind is restless, tangled in memories I thought I’d buried.

I open a new tab.

It’s stupid. Reckless. But I need to know more.

In another picture, this time he’s standing outside some ritzy building, flanked by men in dark suits. No smile, no frown, just a blank intensity that burrows under my skin. Next, he’s kneeling with a golden retriever, head tilted back, eyes closed. Like he’s at peace.

Lies. We both haven’t been at peace since that night.

I dig deeper, but it is always the same: dark suits, unreadable expressions, and effortless control. I click one. Then another.

Then I stop pretending and I’m just looking.

Because the truth is, I’m remembering.

The way he looked today. The way he’s always looked when I used to steal glances when I was younger before I understood what this feeling was.

Now I do.

And it’s fucking ruinous.

I shift under the covers, heat licking through me, letting my mind wander where it shouldn’t.

I drag a finger over the screen, imagining him here, towering over me, his breath hot against my skin.

I tip my head back against the pillows and shut my eyes too tightly. My body is too wired, too desperate. I sit up and—

The thought of him is forbidden, wrong, yet here I am, lost in the heat of it. Imagining his hands tracing the map of my body, igniting a fire that defies explanation. His mouth, a dangerous playground of kisses, bites, and licks, trapping me between the sharp edge of his teeth.

The man in those pictures, like a wanton danger personified, sends shivers dancing up my arm, pooling low in my belly.

It’s that very danger that makes my body ache with a pleasure so acute it borders on pain.

I squeeze my eyes shut, summoning his image: those gray, almost green eyes, pulling me under like a siren's call.

My thighs begin to press together. Every nerve ending screams for his touch. I need his hands, his face, his mouth buried between my thighs, tasting my secrets. For now, a pillow will have to suffice. I clutch it, pressing it hard against my core.

As I rub against the soft cotton, soft moans escape my lips, each one a whispered prayer to the phantom of his touch. With each thrust of my hips, I surrender further to the fantasy, until finally, control snaps.

I throw the pillow aside, desperate for unfiltered sensation. Naked and unashamed, I reach down, and my fingers find the swollen bud, already slick with anticipation.

Watch me fuck myself, Adriano. I’m already dripping, aching, and so fucking needy for you. Imagine your fingers between my thighs, dragging through the mess I made thinking of you.

Now taste me. Taste what’s yours.

A tremor of fear dances through me. What would he do if he found me like this, so raw, so exposed? Would he be angry? Disgusted? The age gap yawns between us, a chasm of societal disapproval. And then there's our history. The tragic one that makes this impossible.

But desire, a raging inferno, consumes all doubts, reducing them to ash.

Are you hard for me, Adriano? Are you stroking yourself in the shadows as you watch me fall apart?

My fingers tease slow, lazy circles, slickness coating them as I spread myself wider.

Can you see how fucking wet I am for you? I sink two fingers deep, gasping at the stretch, my walls pulsing around them.

“Adriano,” I moan, the name spilling out, forbidden, delicious. I call it again, louder, rubbing my clit with my thumb while I fuck myself harder. The sheets twist in my fist, anchoring me as my hips buck, my instinct taking over.

In my head, he’s here towering over me, those beautiful gray eyes blazing, lips parted as he watches me finger myself senseless.

“Mmm, fuck, so good,” I whimper, voice breaking. “Please, Adriano…” I don’t even know what I’m begging for—his tongue, his hands, his cock driving into me. I’ve wanted him forever, a crush that faded to embers when I fled to Italy.

But one glimpse of him today lit it all back up, and now I’m burning alive. For that need, the want, the damn craving with a desperation that scares me. This man, who has haunted my thoughts for years, now resurrected in the heat of this moment.

Do you want me to come for you, Adriano? Do you like how I call your name like a prayer, a plea?

My hands move to my breasts, cupping them, teasing the nipples that harden instantly beneath my touch.

In my mind, it’s his hands, so rough and demanding, that claim my flesh.

He’d put his mouth on each nipple, suckling hard, nipping, licking, until it’s tight and aching.

I’m a gasping, writhing mess beneath him.

You’re so damn gorgeous, he’d say, his voice a low growl, eyes dark with possessive hunger. And I’d fall, willingly, gratefully, into the abyss of him.

It’s too much. I thrust my hips, faster, harder, my fingers pumping in and out of me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh…Mmmm…”

My pussy clenches tight around my fingers, the waves of heat swallowing me whole.

Then orgasm explodes, a supernova of sensation that rips through me, leaving me gasping and trembling. I’m screaming, thrashing, lost in the storm of pleasure, unsure if I’m still in my room or adrift in some other reality.

I’ve never touched myself like this before, with such abandon, such raw hunger.

As the aftershocks fade, I sink into the mattress, limbs boneless, breath ragged. My fingers slip free, wet with my own release, the evidence of just how far I’ve let myself go for him.

I force myself up, legs shaking, my knees weak like I’ve been fucked for real.

The bathroom tiles are cool beneath my feet as I brace against the sink, flicking the faucet on.

Cold water rushes over my fingers, then splashes against my flushed skin, a failed attempt to rinse away the heat still coiling deep inside me.

But there’s no shame. No regret. Just the slow, drugging pulse of the best orgasm I’ve had in ages.

So wrong. But so damn right.

And it’s all him. That immovable, untouchable man who has owned my thoughts for as long as I can remember. Seeing him again has only made it worse.

Because now, I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting more.