But right now? He’s not cold at all. He’s fire, and I’m letting him burn me alive.
He palms the back of my neck, tilts my head, and bites my bottom lip like he wants to mark it. His other hand grabs my hip, hard enough to bruise. I can feel the thick line of his cock through his pants pressing right into me. No games. No pretending.
Nicolowantsme.
And that shouldn’t feel like a win because you don’t want a man like Nicolo to truly notice you. But I do. I want him to want me, desperately so.
I kiss him harder. Sloppier. Trying to crawl inside him, like maybe I can make this real if I don’t stop. My underwear is soaked, my thighs shaking. I’d let him take me right here, door unlocked, lights on, nothing hidden.
But then he pulls back. Abrupt. Sharp. Like something flipped in his head.
His breath is rough. Chest heaving. He stares at the door over my shoulder, not looking at me, jaw locked like he’s trying to reel himself back in.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
For one second, he just stands there, forehead resting against mine. Like he doesn’t know what the hell he just did. Like he’s trying to forget it already. And before I can say anything, he’s gone.
The door slams shut behind him, and I’m still standing there shaking. My lips are swollen. My heart’s beating too fast. My thighs are still pressed together, trying to hold in the ache he left behind.
He didn’t say anything. Not a fucking word. And somehow, that hurts more than if he had.
26
NICOLO
My fists slam into the heavy bag, each strike sending it swinging wild on its chain. The links rattle overhead, squealing like they’re about to snap. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging like acid, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The thud of leather against leather echoes off the gym walls, steady as a war drum. Steady as the rage hammering in my chest.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the damn issue.
My knuckles are raw, skin splitting under the wraps, but none of it cuts through the memory of her. The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, sweet and maddening. Her moans are carved into my skull, that reckless sound that has no business echoing through these halls. And that fucking dress—pink, soft, clinging to her like sin stitched in fabric. Every sway of it, every inch of bare thigh, is burned into me like a brand I’ll never get rid of.
I hit harder. The chain jerks. The bag flies back and slams into my shoulder, pain bursting through the joint, but it only fuels me. I welcome it. I deserve it.
The sound she made when I shoved my tongue down her throat—low, wrecked, desperate. It won’t leave me. It claws at me, worming its way under my skin, and every time I close my eyes, it plays on repeat. A soundtrack to my own fucking downfall.
And my cock? It’s raging, straining against my shorts like I’m some goddamn schoolboy who just had his first kiss. I should be humiliated by it, furious. Instead, it makes me harder. It makes me imagine dragging her into my bed, ripping that dress to pieces, and burying myself so deep she’d never think of another man. Showing her what it really means to provoke a man like me.
I slam the bag again, teeth gritted. My body’s a furnace—muscles burning, veins pulsing fire, lungs screaming for air. Still, I keep going. Still, I fight.
I should hate her for this. For getting under my skin. For making me lose control. For making me want things I have no right wanting. But the hate isn’t for her.
It’s for me.
Because it wasn’t her who made me cross that line. It was me. I lack the control. I always fucking have when it comes to her.
The bag swings back into me again, rattling my ribs, and I let it. Let it bruise. Let it punish. My fists crash forward anyway—reckless, relentless—because stopping means admitting the truth.
She needs to go. Out of my Castello. Out of my sight. Before I do something worse.
Because admitting I can’t keep my hands off her? That’s not just a mistake. That’s weakness. That’s surrender. That’s defeat.
And I don’t lose. Not to my enemies. And certainly not to my desires.
The chain above the bag squeals, threatening to give way under the punishment I’ve been dealing out. I drag in a breath,fists still clenched, chest heaving. My knuckles are split, my arms trembling, but none of it matters. None of it quiets the storm.
That’s when my phone buzzes across the bench. The sound cuts through the gym like a gunshot. Too sharp. Too real.
