I wasn't sure when the line between fear and fascination blurred. But somewhere between being kidnapped, held in a sprawling estate I couldn't escape, and watching Lucas De Santo stare at me like I was both a threat and a temptation… I stopped pretending I didn't want to touch the fire.
Tonight, that fire had a name.
And it was him.
I sat on the edge of the bed, heart punching my ribs like it wanted out. My wrists were free now, and the room—massive, dimly lit, high-ceilinged—felt even more dangerous because there were no more locks. No restraints. Only choice.
And the choice was mine.
The door creaked open.
Lucas stepped in, shirtless, like sin wrapped in skin. His torso bore fine scars and tattoos that twisted over lean muscle. There was a small wound on his left shoulder—a gash stitched fresh—and dried blood smeared along his ribcage like war paint.
"You're bleeding," I whispered, the words catching in my throat like thorns.
He shrugged. "It's nothing."
But I stood anyway, reaching for the small towel on the dresser. I didn't think. I moved, and he let me.
Up close, he smelled like clean sweat and leather and the coppery bite of blood. I pressed the damp towel gently against his side. He winced—but didn't flinch.
"You shouldn't have been there," I said quietly, wiping the blood away.
"I was the one keeping you alive."
"You mean the one who kidnapped me?"
Lucas's lips twitched, but there was no humor in his eyes. "If I hadn't taken you, Matteo would've."
"And that's better?"
"It's the only reason you're still breathing."
His voice was low, cold—and yet his body was so close to mine I could feel the heat radiating off him. My fingers hesitated at his stomach. I looked up. He was watching me again. That look that made me feel naked even with clothes on.
"I don't know what game you're playing," I said. My voice trembled, but it wasn't fear.
He leaned in, mouth barely a breath from mine. "Neither do I."
Then he kissed me.
Hard. Suddenly. Like he was punishing himself with my lips.
And I kissed him back.
There was nothing soft in the way our mouths crashed. My hands curled into his hair, and his fingers clutched my waist like he couldn't decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.
His body was burning.
So was mine.
Clothes came off without thinking. My shirt was over my head, and his hands were on my skin—everywhere. They slid over my stomach, up to my breasts, squeezing, teasing, making my breath catch and my head tilt back.
I gasped when his mouth followed, trailing fire across my collarbone, then lower. I arched into him, shameless now. The ache between my thighs pulsed, growing hotter, needier, wilder.
"You're playing with danger," he muttered against my skin.
"I think I like danger."
"Careful, piccola. You'll make me forget who I am."
"Then forget."
I wasn't thinking. I didn't care if it was madness.
He lifted me, carried me to the bed, laid me down like something precious—and then ravaged me like something sinful.
His hands moved with reverence and hunger. He kissed me until my lips bruised, until I moaned into his mouth. I could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against my thigh, teasing me with how much he wanted, how much he held back.
He slipped one hand between my legs, fingers sliding over silk. My breath caught. I bucked beneath him.
"You're soaked," he groaned.
"You did that," I whispered.
His smile was wicked. "I know."
He pulled my panties down slowly, like unwrapping a gift he wasn't sure he deserved. And when he finally touched me, bare and bold, I nearly broke. One finger, then two, easing in while his thumb circled that sensitive spot that made me cry out.
I wasn't quiet. I didn't want to be.
He devoured the sound of me—every gasp, every whimper—like it fed him.
When he slid down and used his mouth instead, I nearly came undone.
Tongue flicking, sucking, tasting every inch of me like he was addicted. My thighs trembled around his head. I fisted the sheets, hips rising, chasing release.
And when it hit, it hit hard. Like thunder crashing through my bones.
I lay there, panting, dazed—and he wasn't done.
He crawled up, kissing his way back to my mouth, letting me taste myself on his lips. He gripped himself, hard and thick, rubbing against my slick entrance, teasing.
"I need to be inside you," he growled.
I didn't hesitate. "Then do it."
He pushed in slowly.
I gasped—stretching around him, full and aching. It burned. It bloomed. It felt like too much and exactly right.
He stayed still for a beat, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged.
Then he moved.
And I shattered all over again.
He thrust into me, deep and slow, dragging it out like he wanted to memorize how I felt around him. I wrapped my legs around his hips, meeting every stroke, panting his name like a prayer.
"Nia—fuck—you feel like heaven."
"Don't stop."
I didn't want to be gentle anymore. I wanted raw. I wanted it ruined.
He gave it to me.
We moved like fire—wild and reckless and hungry. The headboard slammed against the wall. My nails scratched down his back. He groaned, louder now, less controlled.
I could feel another climax building, sharp and fast and molten.
"Lucas—"
"Let go," he whispered.
And I did.
I came screaming, body jerking under his, muscles clenching hard around him—and he followed, burying himself deep and cursing my name as he spilled into me.
We lay there, tangled in sweat and breathless silence.
For a moment, the world felt quiet.
Too quiet.
Until the door burst open.
I gasped, scrambling for the sheets.
Lucas was up in a second, grabbing his gun from the nightstand.
Matteo stood in the doorway.
And he wasn't smiling.
"You think I didn't know?" he said coldly. "You think I wouldn't find out what you were doing with her?"
Lucas raised the weapon slowly. "Leave, Matteo."
But Matteo just laughed.
"You've already chosen her over blood. You think this ends with a fuck?"
His eyes locked on mine, icy and full of rage.
"This ends with a bullet."