He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m oxygen. desperate, consuming, nothing gentle about it. One hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the angle. The other grips my hip, pulling me flush against him so every hard plane of his body presses against mine.
This isn’t the sweet kiss under Christmas lights. This isn’t the restrained affection of someone holding back. This is raw need and barely leashed desire and the promise of exactly how dark his wanting can get.
“Alessandro,” his name comes out as a gasp when his mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “We’re in the gym—”
“Don’t care.” His hand slides under my tank top, splaying across bare skin. “Been trying to be good. Trying to give you space. But Cristo, Elena, you make it impossible.”
“Good. Be impossible with me.” Fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as his mouth does devastating things to my neck. “Stop holding back.”
He groans against my skin, and then he’s moving, backing me up until my spine hits the mirrored wall. The cold glass contrasts sharply with the heat of his body, and when his thigh slides between my legs, pressing exactly where the ache has been building for days, a moan escapes that echoes in the empty gym.
“That sound,” he mutters. “I want to hear you make that sound again. And again. Until it’s the only thing I can remember.”
His thigh presses harder, and pleasure spikes through me. “Alessandro—”
“Tell me to stop.” His hand slides higher under my shirt, fingers tracing the edge of my sports bra. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
“I can’t.” Because it would be a lie. Because every nerve ending is on fire. Because want has transformed into need and need into something desperate and all-consuming. “I want this. I want you.”
“Fuck.” The curse is reverent, almost pained. Then his mouth is on mine again, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
His hand finally, finally, slides under my sports bra, cupping my breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak. The sensation shoots straight through me, and the sound that escapes is definitely not appropriate for a gym.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my mouth. “So perfect. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve imagined this? How many cold showers I’ve taken thinking about touching you like this?”
“Show me.” The demand comes out breathy, desperate. “Stop imagining and show me.”
Something shifts in him, something darker, more primal. His hand slides from my breast to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there in a gesture of possession that should probably alarm me but instead sends heat flooding through my body.
“You want me to show you?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “You want to see what the monster wants to do to you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No fear. Just burning curiosity, trust and want that’s been building for days.
His thumb presses gently against my pulse point, feeling it race. “When I take you, and I will take you, Tesoro, it won’t be gentle. It won’t be sweet. I’ve spent too long holding back, and when I finally let go...” He leans in, mouth brushing my ear. “I’m going to make you mine in every way that matters. Mark your skin. Make you scream my name. Fuck you until the only word you remember is ‘more.’”
Oh God. Every word sends liquid heat through my veins. His hand on my throat, his thigh between my legs, his voice painting pictures of exactly what he wants to do, it’s overwhelming and perfect and not nearly enough.
“I want that.” I can barely form words. “I want all of it.”
“No, you don’t. Not yet.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what’s in his eyes makes my breath catch, desire, darkness and something almost like fear. “You think you know what you’re signing up for, but you don’t. You don’t know how possessive I get. How controlling. How dark my needs run when it comes to taking what’s mine.”
“Then tell me. Show me. Stop protecting me from yourself.”
His hand tightens fractionally on my throat, not enough to restrict, just enough to send a very clear message about who’s in control. “In the bedroom, I demand complete submission.Complete trust. When I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions, no hesitation.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not okay. Because if you give me that control, I’ll take everything. Your pleasure, your pain, your surrender. I’ll push boundaries you didn’t know you had.” His thumb strokes the side of my neck, a gentle contrast to his words. “And when I’m done, you’ll be marked, claimed, completely mine in ways that terrify you and thrill you in equal measure.”
The clinical, detached Alessandro from training has completely disappeared. In his place is the man Marco warned me about, dangerous, possessive, dark. The real Alessandro De Luca, The Shadow, showing me exactly what lives beneath the surface.
And heaven help me, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.
“I trust you,” the words come out steadier than expected. “I trust you not to hurt me. Not to take more than I can give.”
“That’s the problem.” His forehead drops to mine, breathing hard. “I don’t trust myself not to. Not with you. Not when wanting you has become the only thing that feels real in my world of blood and violence.”
“Alessandro—”
