Chapter 22 Belle
BELLE
Okay, screw it, Belle. You aren't here to negotiate.
If he doesn't kiss me, I'm going to kiss him.
My body's always been a traitor around Luca Moretti, and the man is dead-set on torturing me. It's evil how he stands close enough to count his eyelashes but keeps me hanging high and dry.
Unacceptable.
His breath fans across my lips like a tease, and I snap like a rubber band stretched too far.
Fuck waiting. Fuck pride.
I'm done being good.
I launch first.
Mouth on mouth, full throttle, no safety net. I shove off the wall and straight into his chest like I'm the last push notification he'll ever need, fingers in his hair, tasting heat and trouble.
He growls as I clutch his lapels.
For one heart-stopping second, he freezes. Then he growls, and my toes curl into the marble floor, before he takes over like he's been waiting for permission to devour me.
His hands slide to my lower back, pulling me closer, and his lips eat mine.
He grips my ass like he wants to measure what he owns. He squeezes hard, making me gasp, and I feel him smile against my mouth, the bastard.
"Thought you were leaving," he mumbles between kisses.
"Shut up." I bite his lower lip.
That does it, and he goes feral. His palms slide over my ass like it's his to do what he wants with, squeeze, and suddenly I'm airborne.
"Hold on," he rasps.
My legs instinctively lock around his hips. Clingy? Baby, I'm Velcro.
The wall's at my back again, but this time I'm eye-level with him, watching his pupils blow wide as he kisses me fierce. I'm so wet I could qualify as a natural disaster.
He starts walking while he keeps kissing me, my ankles locked at the small of his back.
We're a public hazard going up the stairs—bang into the banister, bang into the wall, kiss between curses, my back hitting plaster with a crunching thud.
I'm laughing into his mouth, pretending we're the demolition crew around here.
My hands are everywhere—his hair, his neck, his shoulders. I need to touch all of him or I might just die. His tongue strokes against mine, and I'm making sounds that'll put my dead mama to shame.
We hit my bedroom door and he kicks it open and close behind us like it insulted his lineage. The door bangs loud. Someone's going to hear. Someone's going to know exactly what we're doing.
I don't give a single solitary fuck.
A few more steps and I'm sprawled on the bed, breathless, hair wild, heart a drumline.
He knocks into a side table in his quest to jump into bed with me.
"Fuck," he mutters as he falls above to kiss me silly again.
"Yeah, that's what I want to do too, baby," I trash-talk for fun, and he laughs with hunger.
"Take off your clothes." He bites my lower lip.
"Which ones?" I tease, already reaching for the button of my jeans. "I've got… several."
"You like trouble, don't you sweetheart?" He smiles against my lips, reaching to grab my wrist.
I freeze and let his hands do the talking.
They're deft, decisive, slow enough to be mean, fast enough to feel heady.
My shirt goes first and he's so slow about it, I could scream. Button, brush of his knuckles, shiver. Then it's off my shoulders and he gives me the full top-to-toe checkout that leaves my thighs clenching for the kill.
He skims a finger under the strap of my bra, reaching behind my back. One-handed, the clasp pops—show-off—and the straps slide down my arms in slow motion.
I shiver from the hit of cold air; his gaze heats right up. He peels the cups away, and I'm bare on the bed in nothing but my jeans, button glinting, waistband riding low like an invitation.
"Let me see you," he murmurs.
His knuckles trace the path where lace used to lie—collarbone to the swell of my breasts—each touch a brand that makes my breath stutter. When his palms cup me, thumbs circling with maddening precision, I arch into him like I'm seeking salvation.
"Perfect," he growls against my skin. "Every inch of you. Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it ignites something primal, something that wants to be claimed.
He fans his fingers wide, thumbs sweeping again until I'm squirming on denim, knees twitching, the seam pressing exactly where I can't stop feeling him.
His hands trail fire down my ribs, my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my pants. My hips lift off the bed, seeking more of him.
"Eager little thing, aren't you?" He undoes the button with torturous slowness.
"If you don't hurry up, I'm going to lose my mind."
"I'd like to see that."
Zzzziiip.
Denim skims skin; the room tilts. His gaze tracks every inch like a heat lamp. I arch without meaning to. I moan like no one's listening. His eyes trace the lace edge of my underwear, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"Look at you," he says, voice rough. "Soaked through."
It's indecent how hot those two words are.
He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties. "Lift."
I do, and he pulls them down, leaving me completely naked and spread out for him like an offering.
His palms trail—thigh, hip, waist—leaving sparks like he's writing his name in fire. I writhe; he watches, shamelessly pleased, like he's tuned me perfectly and I'm singing on command.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he says, hands on my thighs now, spreading them wider. "About how you taste."
Oh God, I'm sold.
He settles between my legs, and I can feel his breath on my clit. My heart's going to explode. Or maybe all of me is.
"Luca," I breathe, half plea, half warning. "Don't tease."
His smile is pure sin. "But you're so pretty when you beg."
I'm two seconds from pulling him up and ripping off his clothes. I reach for the back of his neck, but before I can, he's dipped low.
He drags his tongue along my center in one long stroke, and I arch off the bed like I've been electrocuted.
"Fuck!"
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let me hear you."
His tongue circles my clit, then alternates between broad strokes and precise flicks, like he's mapping me, learning what makes me writhe.
And writhe I do. My hands fist in the sheets, in his hair, anywhere I can reach. He holds my hips down when I try to grind against his face, controlling the pace, the pressure, everything.
"Please," I beg, crying through tears.
"Tell me what you want." His breath is hot against my wet pussy.
"More. Harder. I don't know—just don't stop."
Pressure. Pleasure. The slow-build torture of a man who knows what he's doing and enjoys the knowing. I'm a live wire, a lit fuse, a girl on a rollercoaster she begged to ride and now can't stop screaming on. He hums against me—show-off—and my spine bows like a drawn bow.
He then sucks my clit between his lips and I nearly levitate off the bed. One of his hands slides up to pin me in place, the other drifting lower. He teases my entrance with his fingers, circling, barely dipping in.
"Luca, I swear to God—"
He slides one finger inside me, then another, curling them to hit that spot that makes my vision blur.
That and his mouth, and I'm strung tighter than a string about to snap.
"That's it," he coaxes as he works me higher. "Let go for me, Belle."
The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter low in my belly. I'm close, so close, teetering on the edge of a storm to be unleashed.
"Oh God—" I chant, my hips moving against his face, chasing the release I can feel building.
He presses harder, sucks stronger, curls his fingers just right, and I shatter.
It hits fast and then forever—starts right where he wants it and rushes outward, ripping through me like a trainwreck.
I break on a gasp that's too loud to be legal, hips trembling under his hold, vision starry, heart unspooled.
He rides it with me, his fingers deep inside coaxing the last wave of pleasure, until I collapse back into the mattress, smiling like a girl who got away with something.
"Fuck," he says softly, kissing the inside of my knee like a thank you. "You're gorgeous when you come."
He climbs over me, shedding clothes, and every inch of him steals a little more of my good sense. I can't look away from the thick and hard length of him.
I slide my gaze up and wet my lips.
Broad shoulders, cut lines, the kind of body that makes you believe that Greek Adonis walk amongst us mere mortals. He brackets me with his forearms, like he's promising to brand.
Luca pulls himself between my legs again, the head of his cock playing nudge against my pussy.
He hooks my legs around his waist, his hands sliding under my ass to tilt me up. I can feel him right there. I bring him closer, feel the slow, maddening tease of him at my edge and almost whimper.
He kisses me like he's cashing a check, then pulls back enough to look me dead in the eye.
"Mine," he says, a husky vow.
"Yours," I breathe, already gone.
I roll my hips, trying to take him in.
"Look at me," he orders, and I do. His eyes are storm-dark, intense. "I want to watch you take me."
And then he pushes forward, filling me in one long, perfect stroke. I arch off the bed with a cry, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Fuck, you're tight," he grits out, holding still, giving me time to adjust to his size.
But I don't want time. I want him to move.
"Please," I beg, rocking against him.
He pulls back slowly, then slams home again.
The headboard bangs against the wall, and I don't even care if the entire house hears. Let them know. Let the whole world know that Luca Moretti is fucking me senseless, and I'm loving every second of it.
He sets a relentless pace, each thrust pushing me further up the bed until I'm bracing myself against the headboard. My legs tighten around him, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
"That's it," he growls, shifting the angle to hit that perfect spot inside me. "Take it all."
My nails catch his shoulders; his mouth breaks into a wicked grin that should come with church bells and warning labels. He moves relentlessly, tuned to the exact angle that makes me forget there's a life outside this bedroom.
"Look at me," he grits, cupping my face, forcing my gaze to lock with his as he rolls his hips and drives his cock in deeper. It's devastating—the intimacy, the certainty, the way he refuses to let me drift anywhere but here. "Stay with me."
"I'm—trying—" I gasp, and then he shifts just a little and trying becomes useless. The edge is right there, a cliff with my name on it. He feels it. Of course he does.
"That's it," he murmurs, tender and filthy all at once. "Take it. Let me see you."
The pressure builds again, faster this time, more intense.
Luca reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit, circling in time with how he pounds me.
"You're close," he says. "I can feel you tightening around me."
"Yes," I gasp.
The angle changes again; the world does, too.
Heat stacks on heat, pressure on pressure, and I tip just as he grips my hips tighter and rams into me—helpless, greedy, a girl swallowed by a wave she begged to meet.
"I'm coming, Luca…God, I'm coming…" I scream and it starts right there and ripples outward, stealing my breath.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wrecking ball. It ripples like violence, consuming everything in its path. I try to keep looking at him like he asked, but the pleasure drags my eyes shut, and I shatter beautifully anyway.
My body arches, and I scream his name as the pleasure becomes almost unbearable.
"Fuck, Belle," he groans as my inner muscles clench around him. "That's it, milk my cock, just like that."
He follows me over the edge with a guttural sound, his hips jerking as he empties himself inside me. I can feel the heat of him, the pulse of his release, and it triggers another smaller wave of pleasure that has me trembling beneath him.
For a long moment, we stay like that, joined and panting, his forehead pressed to mine. I feel drunk, dizzy with sensation, too sated to form a single coherent thought.
Eventually, he rolls to the side, taking me with him so I'm sprawled across his chest.
"That was..." I trail off, unable to find the right word.
"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
Okay, fine. Luca Moretti's my weakness.
We stay like that, breathing each other's air, hearts trying to figure out how not to burst. Time goes soft around the edges. I stroke the back of his neck; he kisses my jaw like he's grateful I exist.
I should feel weird about this—about how quickly I went from trying to sneak out to letting him fuck me into next week—but I don't. It feels right. Like this is where I'm supposed to be.
Which is exactly the problem.
Reality comes crashing back.
The appointment.
The baby.
The lies stacking up.
"I need to use the bathroom." I press a quick kiss to his chest before disentangling myself.
He makes a noise of protest but lets me go. I grab his discarded shirt from the floor and slip it on, padding to the bathroom on shaky legs.
I lean over the sink until my pulse stops tap-dancing. I splash some cold water and stare at the mirror. I look thoroughly fucked and not the least bit sorry about it.
The secret I carry starts to feel a whole lot of fucked up. Why am I hiding it, again?
I need to be sure… before I march out there to tell him. Maybe now's the time. Then I crouch to the cabinet where I hid it. The little test I swore I wouldn't look at again. I pull it out.
Two lines. Still. Like a headline I can't outrun.
Luca and I keep getting closer to something real, something honest, but the lies between us grow more tangled by the day.
When did things get so complicated? How the hell am I supposed to tell him now? After I've lied about the doctor, about the pills, about everything?
"You're such an idiot, Belle," I whisper to myself.
Footsteps in the bedroom. My heart slams against my ribs as I fumble the test back toward the drawer. Too fast, too panicked—it slips from my fingers and hits the tile with a plastic clatter that might as well be a gunshot.
Two pink lines stare up at me like evidence at a crime scene.
I drop to my knees, trying to cover it with my body, but it's too late. The bathroom door swings open.
"Belle, what's taking so…"
Luca's voice dies. I watch his eyes track from my face to the floor, to the small white stick that just destroyed both our worlds.
When he looks back at me, it's not the Luca Moretti who kissed me silly just moments ago. There's pain there, and rage. But worse of all, betrayal.
"You lied to me, Belle."