Chapter 30 - Belle
BELLE
"Fuck!"
Luca curses when something hisses and spits on the stove.
He jerks the pan off the burner, and whatever was inside sizzles like it's giving up the will to live.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
The apron tied crooked around his waist does not help his image.
Don of the Moretti empire, currently losing a war to chicken cutlets.
"Everything okay over there, Gordon Ramsay?" I call from my throne at the breakfast bar.
He cuts me a glare sharp enough to kill, then goes back to poking at the charred mess. "I've got it under control."
"Uh-huh. That's what the Titanic's captain said right before the iceberg."
"I swear I'm not appreciated enough around here." He looks at me like I've told him Santa isn't real.
I go quiet here, all out of jokes.
My chest aches with this ridiculous tenderness because he's doing this for me, not because he has to, but because he wants to.
He's been in the kitchen for hours, burning one dish after another… all for me.
It's kind of sweet.
Way, way sweet.
It makes my throat tight, stupidly, because no one's ever tried this hard for me. Not like this.
I rest my chin on my hand and watch this man frown over this perfect meal he's trying to create, then pull back up when my shoulder starts hurting.
It's been three days since he moved me out of the compound and into this villa by the lake.
Luca thought the quiet, the air, the distance would help me heal. He wasn't wrong.
The place is unreal—pine trees crowding the shore, glassy water catching every streak of sunset, silence so deep you can hear yourself breathe.
And him. Always him. Pacing, checking, guarding.
I should be annoyed at how much he hovers, but truth is…I've never felt safer in my life.
Now he's making me dinner. Or trying.
God, please don't let me end up with food poisoning.
Sofia's lucky she ate her dinner early, which was what the maid made, and went to bed in the other room.
"You know," I say, watching smoke curl up from the skillet, "if this was your way of finishing me off, a simple pillow over the face would've been quicker."
"Keep talking," he mutters, flipping the meat with the confidence of a man who has no idea what he's doing.
I grin. God, it feels good to grin after everything. "I'm just saying—your skillset might not transfer to the kitchen. Stick to strangling men with your bare hands."
His jaw tightens, but there's a glint in his eye when he glances at me. "You're worth it."
Those words sink deeper than I want to admit, tugging at something tender and raw inside me.
He means it. God, he really means it.
When he finally serves up what he calls dinner, we both take a bite like we're defusing a bomb.
One chew, two chews—then we lock eyes and spit it out at the same time.
"Oh my God." I'm coughing, grabbing my water. "That's vile. What did you do to it?"
"I followed the recipe." He's scowling at his fork like it's the cutlery's fault.
"Did the recipe say 'burn until it's charred'?"
He mutters something about ungrateful women and stomps to the fridge.
Five minutes later, he sets down ham-and-cheese sandwiches like a man defeated.
"Perfect," I say brightly, taking a big bite. "This, you can handle."
"I know… right." He sounds way too impressed with himself, and I laugh.
We eat like that, joking, talking, like it's goddamn family night and by the end of it, I'm soft on the edges because just being around Luca turns me to mush.
"Thank you," I say as we finish eating. "Not just for the sandwich. For everything."
He takes my hand across the counter, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. "You don't have to thank me, Belle."
"I know." I squeeze his fingers. "But I want to."
When we're done, he gathers the plates and loads them into the dishwasher.
I watch him and think about how bizarre it is to see Luca Moretti, the goddamn Beast of New York, doing something so mundane.
"Ready for bed?" he asks, turning back to me.
"It's hard to be tired when you haven't let me move a finger all day, but yes, as long as you're ready to cuddle me all night."
He smiles, walking over, and before I can stop him, he's scooped me up in his arms.
"I can walk!" I laugh. "I was shot in the arm, not the leg, you caveman."
"Humor me," he murmurs, carrying me down the hall toward our bedroom. "I like taking care of you."
"I can tell," I say, but my voice has gone soft.
It's nice being held like I'm precious and matter enough to protect.
He nudges the bedroom door open with his foot and carries me to the bed, setting me down so gently you'd think I was made of crystal.
The lamp throws a soft glow across the room, gilding his skin in warm light, turning him into something far more than beautiful.
Ethereal, maybe.
"You're staring," he says, sitting beside me.
"I've earned the right." My eyes trace the planes of his face, memorizing every line. "Almost dying gives you certain privileges."
His expression darkens. "Don't joke about that."
"Sorry," I whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Too soon?"
"Always too soon," he says, turning to press a kiss to my palm. "I never want to see you hurt again."
"Then you're in for disappointment." I smile to take the sting out of my words. "I'm clumsy as hell. Just last week I bruised my shin on the coffee table and—"
He cuts me off with a kiss, soft and searching, like he's making sure I'm really here.
Like he's afraid I'll evaporate if he presses too hard.
His hands cradle my face like I'm the most precious thing he's ever held.
"I love you," he whispers against my lips. "I should have told you before everything went to hell."
My heart stutters. "You love me?"
"More than I thought possible." His forehead rests against mine. "When I saw you bleeding on the floor, I realized I never told you. And if you'd—" his voice cracks, "—if you'd died, you would never have known."
"I'm right here," I promise, taking his hand and placing it over my heart. "Feel that? Still beating. Still yours."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and it's like he's done being careful.
Hunger takes over, stealing my breath, stealing every thought that isn't him.
His tongue tangles with mine and, BAM, my body's on fire.
Heat coils low, sharp and demanding, and I'm arching into him before I can stop myself.
God help me, I'm gone.
"Belle," he breathes, pulling back. "Your shoulder—"
"Is fine." I tug him closer. "The doctor said so, remember?"
His eyes pin me, searching like he's waiting for me to show him pain.
Joke's on him. I'll burn if I don't have him.
He reads what I need, thank the fucking stars.
"Lie back," he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my skin tingle.
I do as he commands, watching as he carefully helps me out of my shirt, working around my shoulder with gentle hands.
Then he takes off my bra, reverent as a priest, and I tremble from how he watches me.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, eyes traveling over me. "So fucking beautiful."
His hands are warm as they skim over my ribs, my stomach.
He bends to kiss the curve of my breast, his mouth hot and wet against my skin.
I gasp when his tongue circles my nipple, teasing it to a hard peak before moving to the other.
"Luca." I thread my good hand through his hair.
He takes his time, worshipping each inch of skin with his lips and tongue until I'm squirming beneath him.
His hand slips beneath the waistband of my pajama pants, finding me wet and ready.
"For me?" he asks, fingers stroking through my folds.
"Always for you," I pant, lifting my hips to meet his touch.
He helps me wiggle out of my pants and underwear, leaving me naked while he's still fully clothed.
It's soft. It's lazy. It's a moment I etch into my mind.
He stretches out beside me, his clothed body a cozy thing to nestle up against.
His fingers return to my pussy, stroking slowly, circling my clit in lazy laps with just enough pressure to make my toes curl.
"I love watching you," he whispers, lips dragging over my ear, hot enough to make me shiver. "Love seeing what I do to you."
One finger slides inside me, stretching me slow. Then another, pushing deeper, curling until he hits that spot that makes my whole body jolt and see stars.
Oh great, guess I'm the fireworks tonight.
His thumb never stops circling my clit—steady, relentless, maddening.
It's too much and not enough, over and over, like he knows exactly how to push me to the edge without letting me fall.
"That's it," he coaxes, voice dark velvet. "Ride my hand, Belle. Take what you need."
I do because I'm addicted to him in ways he doesn't even know.
My hips buck up against his palm, chasing the rhythm, shameless now.
The tension builds low and sharp in my belly, coiling tighter and tighter until I feel like I might split apart from the need.
"Luca," I gasp, clutching at his shoulder, nails biting into his skin. "I'm—I can't—"
"You can." His pace quickens, thumb working me ruthlessly, fingers stroking deep in perfect rhythm.
His eyes are locked on mine, molten and merciless. "Come for me. Right now. Let go."
The dam breaks.
My orgasm crashes through me so hard I cry out, my back arching clean off the bed.
It rips me wide open—pleasure flooding every nerve, rolling in wave after wave until I'm shaking, sobbing his name.
My thighs clamp tight around his wrist, my body clenching around his fingers like I never want to let go.
He keeps moving, drawing it out, stroking me through the shudders until I'm boneless, wrecked, trembling in his arms.
I collapse against him, chest heaving, sweat damp at my temples.
"Look at you," he murmurs, kissing the corner of my mouth, his hand still pressed against my pulsing center. "So fucking beautiful when you break for me."
"Break? More like shattered…" My voice comes out hoarse.
He looks at me like I've said something illegal and he's up for a night in prison.
Then, without a word, he sits up and starts peeling his clothes off.
The shirt goes first, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of every bruised, cut muscle on display.
"Fuck," he mutters when his belt snags, and I laugh, still half-gone from the orgasm but giddy at the sight of Luca Moretti battling denim.
And then he shoves his pants down, boxers with them, and Jesus Christ.
My eyes widen, my brain short-circuits, and if I wasn't already flat on my back I'd have to sit down.
His cock could give a battering ram a run for its money.
Thick, hard, flushed—like it's been forged for one purpose, and that purpose is me.
"Oh my God," I blurt before I can stop myself. "You're actually obscene."
His smirk is lethal as he crawls back over me, caging me in with all that heat and muscle, his cock heavy against my thigh, making me gasp all over again.
"You ready for me, Belle?" he murmurs, brushing his lips over mine, teasing.
"Ready?" I laugh breathlessly, tugging him closer. "I was born ready."
He bends to press his lips against my belly, reverent as a prayer.
"Our baby," he whispers, voice breaking around the words. "Our miracle growing right here."
His hands frame my waist like I'm made of spun glass, and when he trails kisses up my body—stomach to sternum to throat—each one feels like a promise.
A vow that this time, love won't end in tragedy.
Tears blur my vision because this man, this beautiful, broken man, is choosing hope over fear.
Choosing us over the ghosts that haunt him.
When he reaches my mouth, I taste salt on his lips and realize he's crying too.
"I love you," I whisper, the words feeling inadequate for the storm inside me. "God, Luca, I love you so much."
He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against me.
Slowly, carefully, he pushes inside, filling me inch by inch until I'm stretched around him, complete.
He starts to move, slow at first, like he's afraid to hurt me.
Each roll of his hips drags that thick length deep, stretching me, stroking me in ways that make my eyes flutter shut.
Holy hell. This man. This cock. It's like being wrecked and worshipped at the same time.
"You feel like heaven," he groans, forehead pressed to mine. "So tight, so wet for me."
"Yeah, well," I gasp, my nails biting into his shoulders. "You're a hard man to resist."
He laughs against my mouth, and the sound vibrates through me, warm and dark.
His thrusts stay slow, deliberate, each one sinking me deeper into the mattress.
He's not chasing release—he's chasing me.
My sounds.
My shivers.
My surrender.
Every time he slides in, it's a little deeper, a little harder, and the pressure builds sharp and low again, winding me up like a live wire.
My body knows him, craves him, and I can't stop the soft cries that spill out with every roll of his hips.
"You're mine," he whispers, kissing me between the words, his lips brushing my jaw, my throat, the shell of my ear. "Every part of you. Mine."
"Yes," I whimper, lifting my hips to meet him. "Yours. Always yours."
His hands tighten at my waist, guiding me, holding me steady as he grinds just right, hitting that spot that makes me bite my lip so hard I taste copper.
"Oh God—Luca." I'm panting, legs trembling, my body strung so tight I could snap. "I'm close—don't you dare stop."
"Never," he growls, kissing me hard, his tongue sliding against mine, his cock rocking slow and deep inside me. "I live for this. For you falling apart on me."
And I do.
The orgasm rips through me with brutal sweetness, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper as I cry his name.
My nails rake down his back, my thighs quake against his hips, and I'm gone, undone, shattered into a thousand sparks.
He catches me with his kiss, swallowing my cries, and groans into my mouth as his own release hits.
His thrusts falter, his body shakes, and then he's spilling into me, deep and hot, his teeth catching my lower lip in a soft bite that makes me whimper all over again.
When it's done, he stays inside me, his weight heavy and perfect, his arms caging me in like I'm the only safe thing in his world.
"I'll never touch another woman," he whispers, raw and certain. "You've ruined me for anyone else."
I kiss him back, fierce and trembling, and smile against his mouth.
"Good," I whisper. "Let's ruin each other."