But the excuse feels hollow, even as my back arches involuntarily when he hits a spot that makes me see stars.
"Look at me," Damiano commands, his voice rough with exertion.
When I don't comply, his hand gently cups my face, turning it toward him. "Open your eyes, Zoe."
I meet his gaze. Instead of the cold calculation I expect, his eyes hold something unfamiliar—a vulnerability that catches me off guard.
"You're perfect," he whispers, the words so soft I almost miss them.
His rhythm slows, his movements becoming less frantic and more tender. The change is jarring—this isn't just sex anymore. This is something else, something dangerous.
Damiano lowers his head and kisses me with unexpected gentleness, his lips moving against mine like a promise. Not possessive or demanding, but almost reverent.
The tenderness is worse than the roughness. I can handle his desire, his dominance—but this softness threatens to crack something inside me I can't afford to break.
I lie awake watching the rise and fall of Damiano's chest, his powerful frame finally surrendered to sleep. Thesheets barely cover his waist, revealing the tapestry of tattoos across his torso.
Less than an hour ago, he jerked upright beside me, a name tearing from his throat in anguish.
"Bianca!"
His eyes had been wild, unseeing, locked in some nightmare I couldn't penetrate. Sweat beaded his forehead as his chest heaved with ragged breaths. I froze, unsure what to do, this vulnerability so at odds with the dangerous man I know.
When awareness returned to his eyes and he saw me watching, something shattered in his expression before the walls slammed back into place. He'd turned away, muttering something about getting water, but eventually returned to bed, keeping to his side until sleep reclaimed him.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. I've crossed a line tonight I never thought I would. Using my body as a weapon was one thing in theory, but the reality is messier. My body responded to his touch in ways I couldn't control, betraying my mind's determination to hate him.
I glance at his sleeping face, peaceful now, the hard lines softened. Who is Bianca? The pain in his voice when he called her name was raw, real.
I slip out of bed, gathering the sheet to wrap around my naked body. My legs feel like jelly, and I'm struggling to process everything that just happened between us. I need space to think, to breathe without his scent clouding my judgment.
I'm halfway to the door when Damiano's voice cuts through the darkness.
"Where are you going?" His voice is rough with sleep, but alert.
I pause, clutching the sheet tighter around me. "I thought it would be better if I went back to my room."
I don't turn to face him. I can't. Not after what we just shared. Not when my body still hums with the memory of his touch—hands that shouldn't feel so good against my skin.
"Stay." Just one word, but it hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
When I finally turn, I'm struck by what I see in his eyes—need, raw and unguarded. Not just desire, but something deeper. Something that makes my chest tighten despite myself.
"Damiano—"
"Please."
That single word dismantles my resolve. I've never heard him ask for anything, let alone with that edge of vulnerability in his voice.
With a sigh, I walk back to the bed and slip under the covers, leaving space between us. "Fine. But no touching. We actually need to sleep at some point."
A hint of his familiar smirk returns. "You won't be able to resist me."
"Watch me," I challenge, turning my back to him and curling on my side.
"That doesn't help," he murmurs, his voice closer now. "This view of your ass might be even better."
Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up from my chest. "You're impossible."
