“So you want to have sex?” I ask, because pretending it’s anything else feels too dangerous.
He shakes his head once, jaw tight, eyes fierce.
“It was never just sex. And you know it.”
The truth hangs between us like a live wire.
“Why?” I whisper, voice breaking. “What good will it do to tease us with a bit of happiness when we already know the ending?”
His hand cups the back of my neck, pulling my forehead to his.
“Because if I can’t have you for the rest of my life,” he breathes, “I will make every moment count.”
I should tell him no.
I should sit up, pull the sheets tight around me, and say the logical thing. Thesanething. That this is reckless. That it’ll only make everything harder when the month is over. That I’m already too attached, too tangled in him to walk away clean.
But when I look at him—at the man who has held power like armor his entire life and is now offering me every unprotected piece of himself—my resolve fractures. I touch his jaw, fingers trembling.
“Make love to me, Lorenzo.”
For a heartbeat, he goes still. Not like he didn’t hear me, but like the world just stopped spinning.
His eyes search mine, hungry and disbelieving.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, his voice rough enough to unravel me.
My breath stutters, but I nod. “Yes. It’s a yes.”
“Then I’m not going to rush,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against mine. “I’m going to take my time, because I already know this is the moment I’ll replay for the rest of my life.”
And the way he says it? It tells me he understands the finality of this just as much as I do.
His thumb traces my lower lip, slow and reverent, as if he’s memorizing the shape of the word yes while it still hangs between us. For a long moment, he just looks at me. No smirk. No power. No empire behind his eyes.
Just a man.
“Elizabeth,” he whispers, like my name is a prayer and a sin all at once.
His hand slides into my hair, guiding my face closer. When his lips touch mine, it isn’t hungry—it’s grateful. A slow brush of warmth that steals my balance more than any fevered kiss ever could.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and every thought I had about consequences dissolves. I pull him closer, needing to feel him, needing to forget the ticking countdown on our time.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, breathing hard.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this without feeling like I was stealing something.”
My chest tightens. “You weren’t stealing.”
“I was,” he says softly. “Because you were never mine to keep.”
His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm and uneven. His fingers slide slowly along my spine, gentle, careful—as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he touches me too boldly.
“Lie down,” he whispers.
It isn’t a command.
It’s a request.
