He pulls back, and he looks almost pleased that I didn’t seem to know what to do. It proves to him that I’m as innocent as he’s been promised.
If only he knew.
He walks me back to the house, says goodnight to my father, and leaves. And I stand in the foyer for a moment, my lips still tingling from that kiss, my stomach churning with something that feels like nausea.
"You handled that well," my father says from behind me, and I jump. There's approval in his voice. "Alessandro is pleased with you."
"I'm glad." I manage to choke out the words. I excuse myself and go to my room, and the moment the door closes behind me, I start to cry.
Not loud, dramatic sobs, just quiet tears that slide down my cheeks and drip onto my dress, leaving dark spots on the pale pink fabric.
I cry for the life I'm losing and the choices I'll never get to make. For the man I love who doesn't even know I exist—not really, not as myself. I cry until there are no tears left, and then I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the wall and think about Luca.
I think about the way he touches me. The way he looks at me. The way he makes me feel alive in a way that nothing else does.
I have to see him again. I need to see him every night that I can until this has to be over. I need every memory I can get of him—soft, rough, gentle, hard, everything in between. I need him, his hands and his mouth and his body, and to give him all of mine, because when this is over, I will never have this again.
The thought is almost unbearable. But the only thing that would be more unbearable is never going back while I still can.
—
Luca is alreadyat the club when I arrive. I can see him from across the room, standing at the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's wearing all black, and even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gripping the glass like he wants to break it.
Something happened. Something that's made him angry or desperate or both. And I can’t help but hope that it has something to do with me—therealme.
That maybe he’s this angry because he heard about the engagement, too.
We don't waste time with small talk. We just head straight upstairs to one of the private rooms, and the moment the door closes behind us, he's on me.
The first kiss is bruising and desperate, like he's trying to consume me, to crawl inside my skin and make a home there. I kiss him back with the same desperate hunger, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. I need this, need him. I need to forget about Alessandro's chaste kiss and my father's satisfied smile and the countdown that's ticking away in my head.
Six weeks. Six months. But right now, in this moment, none of that matters.
Right now, I'm Valentina. And I belong to Luca.
He backs me toward the bed, his hands already working at the zipper of my dress. "I need you," he says against my mouth, and his voice sounds raw. "I need to be inside you. I need to know you're mine."
Another fissure runs through my cracking heart at that. “I’m yours,” I whisper, and I wish he could know how muchImean it. That it’s Giulia, not this woman called Valentina who doesn’t even exist, who is saying it… that I’ll always belong to him, even after I can’t see him any longer.
Our clothes come off faster than they ever have before, as if we both need to get each other naked, to see each other bare, feel our skin touching. He picks me up and tosses me back onto the bed, making me gasp as he follows me down immediately, thrusting into me before I can even catch my breath. He groans when he realizes that I’m already soaking wet for him.
"Say it again," he demands, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours." The words come out breathless, desperate. "Only yours."
Something shifts in his expression. Something possessive and almost violent. “No one else,” he repeats. “You haven’t been with anyone else.”
He’s not asking me. It almost sounds like a challenge, a dare to tell him otherwise. I shake my head, trembling in his grip as he thrusts into me roughly. “No one,” I whisper, and that at least is the truth. I wish it always could be.
His grip on me, his thrusts into me, are relentless. I cling to it, to the sensations, because they feel like they’re the only thing that’s real. He drives into me again, his hips rocking as he tries to settle into me as deeply as he can, and I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders. He groans against my neck.
"Mine," he murmurs, and it sounds like a vow. "You're mine."
"Yes." I'm gasping, trembling, falling apart beneath him. "Yours. Always yours."
He fucks me like he's trying to prove something. Like he's trying to mark me so completely that no one else could ever touch me without seeing his claim. And I let him take everything I have to give and then some. I let him use my body to exorcise whatever demons are chasing him tonight.
Because I'm using him too. Using this—us—to forget about the life that's waiting for me outside these walls, the engagement announcement, the wedding planning.
