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His gaze flicks to my lips like he wants to kiss me, needs to, but he doesn’t. Something in my expression must warn him off. Instead, he drops his forehead to my shoulder with a strained groan, the sound rumbling through my skin like a low-voltage current.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me, dolcezza.”

His hands slide down to my thighs, gripping tight, fingertips sinking into the flesh like he’s anchoring himself. I let my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against me in the water. The pressure makes us both gasp.

I feel the length of him against me. He’s hard. So hard. And now, he’s pressed right where I’m pulsing with need.

My hips shift on instinct, and he growls, a rough, guttural sound that sends heat rushing down my spine. His hands clutch my waist, guiding me, rocking me against him slowly, sinfully, our bodies grinding through wet clothes that feel suddenly too thin.

“You feel that?” he pants, forehead pressed to my collarbone. “That’s what you fucking do to me, Jordyn. Every time you look at me like that.”

My fingers knot in his hair, tugging gently as my hips roll against his. Every slow drag of friction makes it harder to breathe, harder to think. I’m trembling, not out of fear, but from the overwhelming ache building between us.

Matteo’s hand trails up my spine, cupping the back of my neck like he’s seconds from losing control. But he doesn’t kiss me. He just groans into my skin, hot breath brushing the curve of my neck.

“I want to taste you so bad,” he mutters. “But I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you want me to. Just let me feel you like this.”

I nod, throat too tight for words.

So he keeps going. Slow, steady grinds that make both of us feral, bodies slick and desperate, water sloshing around us as tension coils tighter with every pass of his hips. I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out, nails dragging down his back as the edge creeps closer, hotter, sharper.

Neither of us says a word. But we both know, we’re tethering dangerously close to something neither of us will be able to take back.

The world narrows to nothing but the roll of his hips, the way he groans low and filthy against my throat every time I grind back just right.

“Just like that,” he pants. “God, baby, don’t stop.”

My fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright. Water splashes quietly around us, our bodies a tangled, frantic mess beneath the surface. It’s messy. It’s desperate. And it’s so damn good .

Each grind hits deeper, slower, heavier.

I feel it building inside me...a pressure, an ache, something sweet and sharp blooming low in my stomach. My head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as my body takes over.

I’m right there and so is he.

“Fuck, Jordyn, I’m—” His voice cuts off with a ragged, broken moan, his hips jerking against mine one last time before he goes completely still.

My release hits a breath after his. Silent and shattering. My legs tighten around him as the pleasure rushes through me, bright and dizzying, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. Hell, I even forget that I exist.

We cling to each other, panting, trembling, the aftershocks pulsing between us.

It’s only when his head drops to my shoulder again that reality starts creeping back in.

“Holy shit,” Matteo murmurs, voice hoarse. “Did we just…”

My cheeks burn. “Yeah.”

Silence.

Then, footsteps.

Distant. Sloshing.

Matteo stiffens. “You hear that?”

I snap out of my haze, ears straining.

Footsteps. Then voices and laughing.

“Someone’s coming.” I whisper.

He lets go of me fast, pushing back, adjusting his shorts under the water with a quiet curse. I sink lower into the pool, pulse still racing, adrenaline now tangled with panic.

“Get out of here,” Matteo hisses, eyes scanning the edge of the property. “Go through the side door, I’ll distract whoever is coming.”

I hesitate, but his gaze is sharp now, all playfulness gone.

“I mean it, Fossette. Vai, adesso. ”

I nod, slip away from him, and dart through the water, heart thundering. As I climb out, the cool night air kisses my overheated skin.

I don’t look back. But I feel eyes on me the entire way.

The morning sun bathes the dining room in a soft, golden glow, the kind that should feel warm and comforting. But all I feel is heat, under my skin, between my thighs, lingering from last night like a bruise no one can see.

The table is full of life. Bianca is slicing a crostata, Enzo is half-listening to Luciano rant in Italian about something political, and Matteo...he’s sitting across from me, coffee in hand, looking far too calm for someone who made me come in the pool six hours ago.

Our eyes meet.

Just for a second.

His lips twitch, and he lifts his mug to his mouth, hiding a grin.

My stomach flips. I glance away quickly, forcing a smile at something Bianca says about the local bakery and hoping no one notices the way my hand trembles slightly as I reach for a strawberry.

Beneath the table, I feel the brush of a foot against my ankle.

Matteo.

I don’t look up, but my toes curl. And then the front door creaks and conversation falters. A shadow cuts across the sunlight.

“Ah, speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Enzo mutters with a smirk. “Didn’t think you would actually made it.”

Oh, fuck...Ares .

I don’t even need to look to know it’s him. The air shifts the way it always does when he walks in, like gravity warps to make room for his presence. Heavy. Suffocatingly silent. I finally lift my eyes and instantly my eyes lock with his.

He looks tired. Like he hasn’t slept. Maybe he and his little friend went a few more rounds after they were done. Or maybe he’s just in one of his moods. Tight jaw, unreadable expression, eyes sharp enough to gut someone if they so much as say the wrong thing.

His dark eyes scan the table.

And then, of course, his eyes land on the only empty seat. Right beside me.

My throat goes tight.

He doesn’t say a word. Just walks around the table with that slow, controlled way he always moves, as if nothing surprises him.

He pulls out the chair and sits, right beside me. My body goes rigid, heat crawling up the back of my neck. His knee brushes mine beneath the table, just barely, but it feels like a spark, sharp, unwanted, and impossible to ignore.

Ares doesn’t look at me. Well, not directly anyway.

But I feel him everywhere, like gravity, quiet and crushing.

I force myself to keep my focus on my plate, on my hands, on anything that isn’t the man sitting so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him.

Across from me, Matteo’s grinning as he steals another bite from Bianca’s plate, completely at ease.

He doesn’t suspect a thing.

Not the way I stiffened when Ares sat down. Not the heat that’s blooming low in my stomach, confusing and messy and entirely wrong .

Not the way Ares finally speaks, voice cool and measured. “I almost didn’t,” he says.

I glance up. He’s not looking at me, not really, but his tone makes my skin prickle.

Ares leans back in his chair, fingers drumming slowly on the table, and finally takes a sip of his coffee after one of the staff sets it in front of him.

And just when I think the moment has passed and my stomach stops twisting with nerves, his leg shifts, this time deliberately. I stifle a gasp when his knee brushes mine again. And this time, he doesn’t pull away.

And neither do I.