Page 10 of Luca

Luca is standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the gardens like he owns not only them but every inch of land beyond. Jacket gone, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. His dark hair is slightly mussed, and his posture says relaxed while every inch of him hums with potential violence.

He turns at the sound of the door.

Those eyes sweep over me in one long, deliberate pass. My robe might as well be sheer.

I should say something sweet or shy.

“I think the champagne gave me a migraine,” I blurt out. “Or maybe the shrimp risotto. Could be stress. Or my body’s just shutting down because this is completely insane.”

One brow lifts, but he doesn’t speak.

Oh, shit!

I drop my gaze like a proper Sofia, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

His footsteps are slow, steady.

Oh damn…what’s happening now. This is freaking me out.

When he’s in front of me, the heat from his body touches mine. His hand lifts, knuckles grazing my cheek. “You look tired,” he says.

“I am,” I say softly. Which is technically true. After all, I rode an overnight train to Rome with a bunch of rowdy party boys.

His fingers find the tie of my robe. He pauses. “May I?”

Fuck no, I want to yell, but I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I give the smallest nod though I can’t help wondering what would happen if I refused.

The belt loosens. The robe slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk. Cool air kisses bare skin, and his gaze follows, slow and unhurried, lingering on every inch the lace doesn’t cover.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Careful, Sofia. Don’t screw up.

He leans in and kisses me. Soft at first, tasting, testing. My hands hang awkwardly at my sides, because virginal Sofia wouldn’t know where to put them.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Here,” he says quietly, taking my wrists and placing my palms against his chest. The heat of him soaks through his shirt. Solid muscle under my fingers.

Nice. Not bad.

I curl my fingers slightly, testing. He exhales, low and quiet, and I feel it in places I shouldn’t admit out loud.

The kiss deepens, his tongue coaxing mine into a slow rhythm that makes my knees weak. One hand cups the back of my neck; the other drifts down my arm, over my waist, until his thumb strokes the top of my thigh.

When he pulls back, his eyes are darker. “Lie down.”

I sink into the bed, silk cool under my skin, rose petals scattering onto the floor. He follows, bracing over me, heat radiating from his body.

His mouth finds my collarbone, unhurried, tasting. His hands work at the lace, slipping straps down my arms, exposing me inch by inch. He takes his time, and I remember to breathe like I’m unsure, like this is new territory.

Which it is, sort of. I’ve never had a man likethis. I’ve also never pretended to be a virgin. The one time when I was a virgin, I pretended like I was experienced, so there’s that.

I shift uncertainly, because that’s what Sofia would do. Inside, my pulse is hammering and it has nothing to do with nerves.

His mouth closes around my breast, warm and wet, tongue flicking over the nipple. My gasp is real. His low hum of approval vibrates through me.

“Touch me,” he murmurs.