Chapter Thirty-four
Serena
From the moment I step inside, the space makes me forget how to breathe.
The air is warm and heavy with steam and something floral, faint and soothing, like the kind of scent that sinks into your skin instead of lingering in the air.
Soft golden light spills from everywhere at once.
From candles placed deliberately along the stone floor, from lanterns resting beside the loungers, from the low recessed lights above that mimic starlight rather than electricity.
In front of me, water glows.
A circular hot pool bubbles gently in the foreground, the surface breaking in slow, hypnotic movements, steam curling upward like a living thing.
Beyond it, a larger pool stretches out, its blue deep and luminous, reflecting the surrounding greenery.
A waterfall spills down a stone wall at the far end, the sound low and constant, grounding, like a heartbeat.
Everything is framed by lush plants. Tall palms, glossy leaves, dense greenery that makes the space feel hidden from the world, like this place was carved out just for us. Like no one else could possibly exist beyond these walls.
To one side, I notice the sauna behind glass, glowing amber from within, towels folded neatly nearby.
To the other, wide loungers line the pool, each one dressed in soft fabric, rolled towels placed with almost ceremonial precision.
Candles flicker beside them, flames dancing gently with the movement of the water.
It is intimate without being small. Luxurious without being loud.
Private.
I feel it settle over me slowly, the tension I have been carrying loosening its grip. My shoulders drop. My breath deepens. For the first time since the hospital, since the fear, since everything changed, my body does not feel like it is bracing for impact.
This place does not demand anything from me.
It invites me to rest.
To let go.
To exist without urgency.
And standing here, wrapped in warmth and quiet and water and light, I realize just how much I needed this.
“Yad” by Vanna Rainelle flows softly through the speakers, low and aching, wrapping the room in something slow and intimate.
Lorenzo moves toward me.
My chest tightens instantly.
This place. This music. Him. Everything feels too close, too charged, like the air itself is waiting for something to happen. I look at him and my mouth actually waters, my body responding before my mind has time to catch up.
His abs are sharply defined, his skin warm and slightly damp from the steam. Dark curls fall messily over his forehead, making him look undone in a way that steals my breath. His blue eyes stay fixed on me, unblinking, intense. His lips are full, perfect, made for sin.
I am not saying this because I love him.
I am saying it because it is the truth.
I have never seen a man as beautiful as Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
And just like that, my body obeys.
I move toward him without hesitation, without thought, like I was always meant to end up right there. He reaches up and gently pushes my hair aside, exposing my neck, my shoulders, the places he knows I am most sensitive.
My gaze drops to his mouth and stays there.
Slowly, deliberately, he untucks the towel from around my body and lets it fall away. Cool air kisses my skin. I am completely naked in front of him, exposed and unashamed, my body open to his eyes.
He does not rush.
He wraps one arm around me and lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing at all. I melt against him instinctively, breathing him in. Mint. Clean. Familiar. The scent of cigarettes is gone now. He quit when I got pregnant. That thought alone makes something soft and painful bloom in my chest.
He lowers me onto the spa bed with care, every movement controlled, protective. The towel stays wrapped around his waist. A reminder. A boundary.
I lie back, facing him, my pulse loud in my ears.
He reaches for the oil beside the bed. The scent hits me immediately. Vanilla. Rich and warm. Almost identical to my shampoo, but deeper. More indulgent.
He pours the oil into his hands, rubs them together slowly, deliberately, letting the heat build before touching me.
When his hands finally meet my skin, I almost gasp.
He starts at my collarbone, thumbs pressing gently, spreading warmth and oil across my skin. His touch is firm but unhurried, like he is grounding me, claiming me without possession. His fingers trail up my neck, down my arms, working slowly, intentionally.
I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
The music hums around us, the water murmurs in the background, and all I can focus on is his touch.
His hands brush close to my breasts, close enough that I feel the promise of it, the tease. His fingers graze the outer curve, featherlight, enough to send heat spiralling through my body.
But he does not touch them. Not fully. Not yet. The restraint is deliberate, measured, as if he is savoring the moment before the line is finally crossed.
He moves lower, his hands gliding over my abdomen, slow and reverent, careful of my body, of what it has just endured. Then his palms slide to my hips, thumbs pressing just enough to make me ache.
Heat pools low in my core, deep and insistent.
I need him.
I need his hands where they are refusing to go.
But he stays controlled. Measured. Watching me closely, reading every reaction, every tremor, every breath I fail to steady.
His hands slide down my legs, palms warm and steady as he massages my thighs, slow and unhurried.
The relief is immediate. It feels like he is easing tension out of my body one careful touch at a time, like he knows exactly where I am still holding pain and fear and exhaustion.
The way he takes his time with me makes it feel deeper than pleasure. It feels like care.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
His voice is husky, strained.
I bite my lip when my eyes flick downward and I see how hard he is beneath the towel, the fabric pulled tight, barely holding.
The sight makes heat bloom instantly inside me.
I do not want to turn around. I want to watch him.
I want to touch him. I want to remind myself that he is here, that he wants me, that this is real.
“Is there a reason,” I ask, my voice rough with need, “you are touching me everywhere except where I want you to?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk that does nothing to hide the tension in his jaw. “I am trying to be a gentleman here, baby girl.”
I reach for him, fingers curling into the towel at his waist, pulling him closer. “Can you be a gentleman while fucking me?” I whisper, my hand brushing him through the fabric.
He inhales sharply. I feel him harden further beneath my touch and I cannot help but smile.
He leans in, close enough that his breath fans over my skin, his erection pressed between my thighs, the towel hanging on by sheer discipline. “You are still recovering,” he says, voice tight. “I cannot fuck you.”
“I am sure,” I murmur, my need throbbing low and insistent, “there are other things we can do.”
It has been too long. Two months and two weeks without his touch. Without his body. Without this closeness. I miss him in a way that feels physical, like an ache in my bones.
Then his expression changes.
Something shutters behind his eyes. He pulls back slightly, and for the first time since he touched me, I cannot read him.
“You do not want that,” he says quietly.
He tries to move away.
I catch his hand.
“I am pretty sure,” I say softly, guiding his hand over my breasts, “that I asked you to fuck me seconds ago.”
He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens. His fingers curl instinctively before he forces them still.
“What is wrong?” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, my tongue grazing his skin. I know I am bold. I know I am pushing. I always have been with him. From the first moment I saw him, something in me wanted him in a way I had never experienced before.
“It is not about you wanting it,” he says, his voice low and careful, like it costs him something to say the words. “You do not want me.” He exhales slowly. “There is something I need to talk to you about later. Something that might be making you want all of this.”
Oh.
Understanding settles quietly between us.
I am not offended. Not really. I would be lying if I said I had not suspected something was off.
No other woman I met after a C-section stayed in the hospital for two weeks without complications.
The doctors explained the serum to me. How it helped my body recover faster.
How it kept me strong. How one of the side effects could be an increased sex drive.
Not creating desire, just amplifying what already exists.
Giving my body permission my mind might hesitate to give.
He knows.
And now he thinks this is not me. That I only want him because of what is in my blood.
I lift his hand to my chest and hold it there, my heart steady beneath his palm.
I push myself up from the spa bed, his hand still pressed to my chest. The difference in our height is impossible to ignore now, my body fitting instinctively into his space, my face tilted up toward his.
“I know,” I say quietly.
His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face.
“I want you just as much as I wanted you before everything happened,” I continue. His eyes search mine, trying to find doubt, hesitation. There is none. “I know about the serum. It doesn’t change anything.” My voice softens, raw and honest. “I need you, Lorenzo.”
I swallow, steadying myself. “If anything, it just gives me the confidence to say what I’ve always wanted.”
My fingers drift over his abdomen, solid and warm beneath my touch. My body betrays me completely. Heat pools low, undeniable, real.
“Please,” I whisper.
Something in him snaps.