"Please." I tugged him toward the ensuite bathroom. "You've been taking care of everyone else all night. Let me do this."
He followed without protest.
The bathroom was all marble and chrome, the shower large enough for two. I turned on the water, letting it heat while I helped him out of his tactical vest, his shirt. My fingers traced the familiar planes of his chest, the scars that told stories he rarely shared.
"Come here," I whispered, pulling him under the spray.
The hot water cascaded over us, washing away the blood, the sweat, the remnants of the night's violence. I reached for the soap, lathering it between my hands before running them across his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the tension slowly leave his muscles.
He closed his eyes, head tilting back under the water. "I don't deserve this. Don't deserve you."
"Stop deciding what you deserve." I pressed a kiss to his collarbone, tasting water and skin. "I'm here because I choose to be. Because I love you."
His hands found my waist, pulling me closer. "Say it again."
"I love you, Luca Romano." My hands slid up to cup his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. "I love you and I choose you and I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed me then, slow and deep, water streaming over us both. His hands roamed my body—reverently, not urgently—as if memorizing every curve.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against my lips. "So fucking beautiful and brave and mine."
"Yours," I agreed breathlessly.
The kiss deepened, grew more heated. His hands slid lower, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I could feel his arousal, hard and insistent against my stomach.
"Bedroom," he growled, reaching behind me to turn off the water.
We barely dried off, water still dripping from our skin as he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the bed.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The shadows danced across the walls, casting an eerie silhouette of the bed where Luca laid me down.
His eyes, a piercing blue even in the low light, burned with a hunger that mirrored my own. It was a hunger born of desperation, of longing, of the need to prove that we were still alive, stilloursin a world that seemed determined to erase us.
His hands trembled as he traced the curve of my jaw, his calloused thumbs brushing away the remnants of my tears. The touch was gentle, as if he feared I might shatter under his gaze.
"You’re sure?" he asked again, his voice thick with need and something softer, something that made my heart ache.
It was a question he’d asked before, but this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn’t just about the act itself, but about the weight of everything we’d been through. The empire, the lies, the bloodshed—it all hung between us like a specter, waiting to tear us apart.
"I’ve never been more sure,"I whispered, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
I reached up, fingers trembling as I tugged at the hem of his tactical shirt. The fabric was rough against my skin, a stark contrast to the softness of his lips when they brushed mine.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes searching mine as if seeking permission. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled the shirt over his head, revealing the lean, muscular frame I’d memorized in the dark of our wedding night.
His skin was warm under my fingertips as I traced the lines of his abs, the faint scar on his shoulder—a reminder of battles fought and won.
"You’re real," I murmured, more to myself than to him. It was a mantra I’d repeated in my head a thousand times, a desperate attempt to anchor myself to the truth of him. Because in a world of shadows and lies, Luca was my only constant.
He kissed me then, deep and demanding, his tongue tangling with mine as he pressed his body against mine.
The hardness of his chest against my breasts, the roughness of his stubble against my skin—it was all a stark reminder of his presence, hisreality. I could feel the hard length of his cock through his pants, and a shiver of anticipation raced through me. I wanted him. Needed him.
His hands were everywhere—sliding down my still-damp sides, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I arched into his touch, my breath coming in short gasps as his fingers traced patterns on my skin.
"Tell me what you want," he growled against my neck, his lips trailing down to my collarbone.
"You," I panted, my voice hoarse with need. "I want you. All of you."
