“A Moretti and a Valentine,” he chuckles at the implication.
I draw back enough to view him. His eyes have that darkness that reads like depth, not like danger. We only just met, and the thought of us together like that seems impossible, if we were to even want such a thing.
I’m surprised when his hand slips between my thighs, into my wetness. Pleasantly so.
“I’m not punishing you for choosing smart,” he says.
His fingers enter me hard, just like I need.
It steals the air from my lungs.
I bite down on the sound that wants to break loose, because the world outside this truck is still hunting and I refuse to give it even an echo of me. But Luigi doesn’t let me disappear into silence. His mouth finds the spot under my ear, and he breathes my name into my skin like a claim that isn’t a cage.
“Isabella,” he murmurs, rough. “Beautiful, beautiful Bella.”
The way he says it makes it feel like I’m not a pawn in this city’s game. Like I’m a real woman in a real moment, making a real choice.
I move against his hand, shameless now, chasing relief like it’s oxygen. The truck shifts under us with a soft complaint, metal and leather. It feels obscene and holy at the same time. Like we’re building a sanctuary out of stolen minutes.
His palm stays firm at my hip, anchoring me. His other hand moves with ruthless precision, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and still refuses to take.
“Tell me, Bella,” he says, voice low. “Would you still choose Amore as your safe word?”
I swallow, trying to remember how to breathe. “Perhaps not.”
His jaw flexes.Relief flashes across his face, quick as lightning, and then the control locks back in. He doesn’t speed up because he’s greedy. He speeds up because I asked. Because I’m the one holding the match.
My forehead drops to his shoulder. I can taste him there, salt and blood and winter air. He smells like heat trapped under a jacket. Like a man who was made for violence and decided, somehow, to be careful with me.
The sensation builds fast, tight and bright, a pressure that climbs up my spine and makes my hands shake again, but it isn’t fear this time. It’s need. It’s proof.
I drag my mouth to his and kiss him like I’m collecting evidence.
He kisses me back like he’s been starving, but he keeps his body still beneath mine. He lets me set the pace. He lets me use him. That’s the difference between men who take and men who hold.
Outside, the city is a blur of headlights and dirty snow and unanswered sins.
Inside, I am a woman with my own mouth and my own decisions and my own pulse, and Luigi is here, alive, breathing against me like he refuses to let the world erase me while he’s still standing.
My release hits like a wave.
Quiet. Devastating. It steals my strength and gives it back wrong. My body shakes against him, and fora second I hate how much I needed this, how close I came to losing myself.
Luigi tightens his grip at my hip and holds me through it like it’s his job.
Like it’s his pleasure.
Like it’s his promise.
“Easy,” he murmurs, lips at my temple. “I’ve got you.”
I cling to him, embarrassed by nothing, furious at myself for still believing I’m supposed to be composed when I’ve spent all day fighting to stay alive. My breath comes in sharp little pieces. My hair sticks to my mouth. My thighs burn.
Luigi’s hand slows, then stills. He doesn’t keep going just because he can. He doesn’t chase his own relief at my expense. He waits until my shaking turns into breath again.
Then he tips my chin up with two fingers, forcing my eyes to his.
Not harsh. Not cruel.
