Page 130 of I'm sorry, Princess

I head back out, and Serena’s already in the car, sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat like she owns the place.She’s scrolling on her phone, hair shining in the low sun, smiling at whatever she saw on her phone.

I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat. Her head lifts the second I’m in.

I don’t speak. I just grab her face and kiss her hard.

Fuck. I needed that. Her taste, her softness, the way she melts into me like she belongs there. My hands tangle in her hair, and I kiss her like she’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning all day.

I pull back slowly, breathing heavy, forehead resting against hers.

How the fuck did this happen?

When did this woman stop being a want and become a need?

Chapter Thirty-five

Serena

As Lorenzo’s car pulls into the driveway, my thighs are trembling from the relentless teasing he’s been subjecting me to the entire way here. His hand has been between my legs since we left the club, slow, precise, deliberate, fingertips circling my clit like he owns me, like it’s his only purpose to make me beg. And Gosh, I did. I begged. Whimpered. Panted his name like a prayer. But every time I got close, every time I felt that delicious pressure building, he pulled away. Again and again.

Now the brakes screech and the car jerks to a stop in front of his house. I’m flushed, needy, and dizzy from being edged to insanity. My top is haphazardly tugged above my bra, my panties long discarded, somewhere in the footwell, or maybe he pocketed them just to drive me crazier. Hisfingers are glistening from where they ruined me, and he looks utterly unbothered. Relaxed. Cocky.

Fuck him. And Gosh, I want to.

He sits there for a second, turning the engine off, his jaw clenched so tight I swear I can see the tension radiating off him. His face is cut and bruised from whatever hell he went through earlier, yet somehow, it only makes him hotter. Like a predator who walked away from the fight bloodied but victorious. Dangerous. Dominant. Mine.

I remember what Ian said. That he’s dangerous. That he’s in deep with the mafia. A killer. A criminal. A man I should run from. But standing here, with my body trembling from the orgasm he refused to give me, I’ve never wanted anyone more in my entire life.

He opens my door like a gentleman, but there’s nothing soft in the way he pulls me out. He doesn’t say a word. Just takes my hand and walks us inside with purpose. I stumble beside him, barely able to walk straight with how wrecked I am.

The house is quiet. Bianca is off for the next couple of days, and the dogs are away for training. We’re completely alone. And when the door shuts behind us, the silence is so thick it crackles with tension.

I’m still soaked. My thighs are sticky. Every step I take without my panties feels like torture, each whisper of cool air a reminder of how exposed and desperate I am. My skin is hypersensitive. My core clenches with every breath. I swear I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on me, still aching for more.

We step into the kitchen, and instead of pouncing on me like I hoped, Lorenzo heads to the fridge, opening it casually, like we didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes driving while he fingered me into madness.

What the hell?

I lean against the counter, trying not to shake, watching him from behind as he grabs a bottle of water and takes a long, slow drink. The muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt. His jeans hang sinfully low on his hips. My mouth waters. My pussy throbs.

And I think I’m freaking ovulating.

His silence kills me. His teasing kills me. My whole body is screaming his name and he’s pretending like he doesn’t hear it.

I take a shaky breath. “Lorenzo…”

He doesn’t answer. Just closes the fridge door and turns to face me, leaning back against it, eyes dragging lazily down my body, like he’s already imagining all the filthy things he’s going to do to me. My stomach tightens. My nipples harden under my bra.

I take a step toward him, trying to close the distance. My voice comes out breathless, needy. “Please.”

His eyes darken instantly. And finally, finally, he smirks.

“You’re still not using the right title,” he says, voice rough, deep, a low purr that drips with threat and promise. “You called me a friend.”

I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up,” he interrupts, pushing off the fridge and walking toward me with that controlled, dominant stride. “You don’t get to beg and lie in the same breath, princess.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I never get the chance.