“Taking you to my bed. I have five years of missing you to make up for, amore. That’s going to take time,” I promised, squeezing her tighter as I climbed. “I’m not done with you, Valentina. I’m just getting started.”
If tomorrow you want to hate me again, fine.
But tonight, I don’t care whether you love me or hate me.
I’m going to make you come until there’s nothing left inside you but me.
FIFTY-FIVE
VALENTINA FERRARA
I opened my eyes slowly, my body still heavy with sleep, sore muscles, and that delicious, lingering exhaustion.
Out of habit, I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Six thirty in the morning. Even on a Saturday, my body was trained to wake up early, always at the same time.
And even half-asleep, it took me less than a second to realize I wasn’t in the bedroom that had become mine since moving into that house.
I knew.
This wasn’t my bed. Not my pillow. And most of all, that comfortable, irresistible warmth surrounding me wasn’t coming from the sheets alone.
Enrico.
A wave of heat and awareness rushed through my body, my heart immediately racing. He was there, wrapped around me, his strong, warm body pressed against mine everywhere possible.
His heavy leg tangled with mine. His arm firm around my waist. His slow, deep breathing warm against the back of my neck. I could feel every inch of his naked body molded to mine as the memories of the night before hit me with devastating force.
I closed my eyes again, shuddering as each sensation came back with unsettling clarity—every touch, every kiss, every movement of him over me, inside me. The intense, perfect feeling of being filled by him. His rough voice whispering my name as he took me. The way every single cell in my body responded to his touch as if it belonged only to him.
For a few seconds, I allowed myself to sink into the forbidden pleasure of belonging to Enrico again. A secret indulgence. A wholeness I hadn’t felt in years.
But that dangerous satisfaction didn’t last.
A cold, suffocating shock took over almost instantly, panic settling brutally in my chest and pushing away any trace of pleasure or happiness.
What we had done was wrong. It was madness. It shouldn’t have happened—and it absolutely couldn’t happen again. Ever.
My heart raced harder as desperation grew. I tried to come up with a way to slip out of bed without waking him. I needed to run. I needed to return to my sanity—to the reality where I couldn’t be the woman who gave any part of herself to Enrico Ferrara again.
I took a deep breath, preparing to gently move his strong arm away, when I felt Enrico’s warm lips brush softly against my skin, kissing the side of my face.
My entire body froze.
Then, in a low, sleepy voice filled with an intimacy that made my heart stumble violently, his words reached me.
“Good morning, love.”
“Don’t call me that,” I whispered weakly, fighting desperately not to show how much those three simple words had shaken my already fragile balance.
Enrico chuckled softly against my ear, the sound warm, rough, and wickedly amused, as if my resistance were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
His lips trailed down my neck, leaving a shiver-inducing path of gentle kisses on my sensitive skin.
“I can’t call you love?” he teased, his slow, husky voice making my heart slam against my ribs. “That’s strange. Last night, you seemed perfectly comfortable with it.”
I trembled, every muscle reacting instantly to his touch and his provocation, completely unable to hide the response he pulled from me so effortlessly.
“Last night was a mistake, Enrico,” I shot back, trying to sound firm—and failing miserably as his hand slid along my side, exploring every curve as if I were the most precious thing in the world.
