In public, he's subtle—a thumb tracing my pulse, a single look that sends waiters scattering, a hand at my waist that's both support and claim. I love it. Love being the center of his quiet, relentless obsession.
In private, he's unleashed.
The elevator doors close behind us, and I'm against the wall before I can blink, his mouth on my neck, hands sliding up my thighs to discover I've done as he instructed earlier—no underwear beneath my dress.
"Perfect," he growls, fingers finding me already wet for him. "So fucking perfect for me."
My head falls back against the mirrored wall as he strokes me, expert fingers knowing exactly how to touch me now. He's learned my body better in a week than I have in twenty-four years.
"Please," I whimper, hips rocking against his hand.
"Patience, angel." His voice is dark honey in my ear. "We've got all night."
And we do. Hours spent in his bed—ourbed now—with his hands and mouth mapping every inch of me. Low commands in my ear, breathless praise—"so perfect, angel, look how you take me, this body was made for my hands"—until I'm boneless,mindless, existing only in the space between his heartbeat and mine.
Sometimes I try to remember my apartment—the cramped studio with its secondhand furniture and always-leaking bathroom sink. The view of the alley instead of the glittering Vegas Strip. It's getting harder to recall, like a dream fading upon waking.
"What are you thinking about?" Fabio asks, fingers tracing patterns on my bare back as we lie tangled in the sheets afterward.
"My apartment," I admit. "I should probably go check on it. Pay rent. Something."
His hand pauses momentarily. "Do you want to go back there?"
"To visit, maybe. Not to stay."
His arms tighten around me. "I'll send someone for anything you want brought here."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." He rolls me beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure pinning me to the mattress. "I want you here. With me. Always."
The intensity in his eyes should frighten me. Should make me feel trapped. Instead, it makes me feel treasured. Protected.Chosen.
"Okay," I whisper.
His smile—rare and transformative—makes my heart flip. He kisses me deeply, one hand sliding between my thighs to find me still wet, sensitive.
"Again?" I ask, surprised by my body's instant response to his touch.
"Always." He nips at my lower lip. "I can't get enough of you."
His fingers circle my clit, and I arch into his touch, surrender washing over me in waves. This is what it's like now—constant desire, constant satisfaction. His orbit, his warmth, his consuming devotion feels more like home than anything ever did.
Later, I lie awake while he sleeps beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. Outside, Vegas continues its neon pulse, never sleeping, always hungry. Inside this penthouse, I've found a different kind of hunger—mutual, matched, met stroke for stroke.
My phone sits untouched on the nightstand. There are probably messages from friends wondering where I've disappeared to. Emails from work asking when I'll be back. A life waiting for me to return to it.
I roll toward Fabio, press my face against his chest, breathe in his scent—expensive cologne, clean skin, something darker that's uniquely him. His arm tightens around me automatically, even in sleep protective, possessive.
That other life seems very far away now. A story I read once about someone else. This—his heartbeat under my palm, his body curved around mine—this is real. This is now. This is home.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.
seven
. . .
Fabio
