“I respect your boundaries, Zara.” His voice was low, controlled, but I could hear the effort it cost him. “I will never take what you don’t willingly give.”
Relief washed through me—but so did disappointment. A confusing, infuriating tangle that I couldn’t unravel.
He reached out, tracing a finger along my jawline, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “But make no mistake. You will beg for me. Soon. You’ll beg for your husband to fuck you, to fill you, to claim every inch of your beautiful body.”
My breath caught.
“And when that day comes…” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a dark whisper. “I will make you pay for making me work so hard. Every night you locked me out, every time you pushed me away—I’ll collect. In screams. In tears. In orgasms that leave you broke and sobbing my name.”
My thighs clenched involuntarily. The image he painted—his body dominating mine, his cock surging into me as I pleaded—sent a bolt of heat to my core.
He saw it. His lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Go on, then,” he said, stepping back fully. “Lock your door. Run from me. We both know it’s only a matter of time.”
I wanted to slap that smug expression off his face.
But more than that—so much more—I wanted to fall to my knees and surrender.
And I couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that. I’d been hurt before—used and discarded by men who claimed to love me. I’d built these walls brick by brick, determined to avoid the pain of betrayal again. That fear drives my boundaries, even as my body screams for him.
So I did the only thing I could.
I pushed him.
“Go,” I said, my voice cracking. “Please, Lorenzo. Just… go.”
His expression softened, just a fraction. For a moment, I saw the man beneath the monster, the one who had wiped away my tears, who had whispered promises in Italian that I didn’t understand.
He turned and walked toward the hall, pausing with his hand on the frame. “When you’re ready—when you want me—you know where to find me.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there, trembling, my body still echoing with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice.
I crossed the room in three quick strides, turned the lock with shaking fingers, and pressed my forehead against the cool wood.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I didn’t know who I was apologizing to—him or myself.
I closed my eyes, and the tears I had been holding back slipped down my cheeks.
Why did he have to be so much? So intense, so consuming, so impossible to resist?
But I couldn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust anyone. Men took, took, took, and when finished, left. Lorenzo would be no different. The obsession, the possessiveness—they would one day fade. And then I’d be left hollow, broken, alone.
Better to keep my walls up now. Better to protect myself.
As irrational as the thought was, I could still feel him on the other side. Could still feel the heat of his palms on my thighs, the roughness of his voice in my ear, the way his cock had pressed against me through his trousers—hard, insistent,wanting.
I pressed my thighs together, which was a bad idea because the pressure only made the ache worse.
Don’t think about him.
I pushed off from the door and crossed to the vanity, where my journal lay open from this morning. I’d been writing about the wedding, about the contract, about how I’d keep my walls up and my heart locked away. Such tidy words. Such neat little plans.
I sat down, picked up the pen, and stared at the blank page beneath my last entry.
Dear whoever reads this when I’m dead. Dear future me, who hopefully has her shit together.
I paused, the pen hovering.
