Chapter 6
six
. . .
Sharon
Days blur together like watercolors on wet paper.
I wake in his arms, spend my mornings in his kitchen, my afternoons exploring the penthouse or the shops he insists on taking me to.
Nights belong to his hands, his mouth, his body claiming mine over and over until I forget my own name but never forget his—Fabio—because I'm screaming it as he drives me higher than I've ever been.
A week ago I was Sharon Silverman, florist, ordinary girl with an ordinary life.
Now I'm Sharon DeLuca, and nothing feels ordinary anymore.
I should be freaking out. Should be calling lawyers, my mother, my friends.
I've left exactly two voicemails—one to my boss explaining a "family emergency" and another to my neighbor asking her to water my plants.
Both times, Fabio watched me make the calls, his dark eyes unreadable.
He didn't try to stop me. Didn't tell me what to say.
Just watched, like he was curious what ties I'd maintain to my old life.
Not many, as it turns out.
It's not that I can't leave. He's made it clear I'm free to go whenever I want. Left a credit card on the nightstand "for emergencies," which we both know could include a plane ticket to anywhere. But I don't want to go. That's the crazy part. I don't want to leave this bubble we've created.
Silk dresses appear in my size—rack after rack wheeled into the penthouse while I'm showering or napping. Lingerie that makes me blush just looking at it. Shoes that cost more than my rent. When I protest, he just kisses my forehead and says, "Let me, angel."
So I let him. Let him dress me in fabrics so fine they feel like water against my skin. Let him clasp diamonds around my throat that catch the light when I swallow. Let him transform me from ordinary to something else—something precious, something owned.
Tonight we're at some exclusive restaurant where the ma?tre d' practically bows when Fabio walks in.
Everyone here looks important, beautiful, wealthy.
I should feel out of place. But Fabio's hand never leaves the small of my back, his thumb occasionally stroking against my spine through the thin material of my dress, and that touch is all I need to feel centered.
"Mr. DeLuca," a silver-haired man approaches our table, hand extended. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Senator." Fabio rises slightly, shakes the man's hand. "How's the campaign?"
They exchange pleasantries while I sit quietly, sipping my wine.
I'm getting used to this—the way conversations pause when Fabio enters a room, the way men scurry to shake his hand, the mixture of fear and respect in their eyes.
I'm getting used to the whispers too, the curious glances thrown my way.
Who is she? Where did DeLuca find her? Is she a model, an actress?
None of them guess "florist."
The senator leaves, and Fabio's attention returns fully to me, as if there was never any interruption. His eyes drop to my throat, where his thumb traces my racing pulse.
"Do you like the food?" he asks, but his eyes say he's thinking about tasting something else entirely.
I nod, unable to speak when he looks at me like that—like he could devour me whole and still be hungry for more. Under the table, his hand finds my knee, slides up my thigh in a slow caress that makes my breath catch.
"When we get home," he says quietly, just for my ears, "I want you wearing nothing but these diamonds."
Heat rushes through me, pooling between my legs. A week ago I would have been shocked by such a statement. Now I'm just wet, aching, counting the minutes until we leave.
In public, he's subtle—a thumb tracing my pulse, a single look that sends waiters scattering, a hand at my waist that's both support and claim. I love it. Love being the center of his quiet, relentless obsession.
In private, he's unleashed.
The elevator doors close behind us, and I'm against the wall before I can blink, his mouth on my neck, hands sliding up my thighs to discover I've done as he instructed earlier—no underwear beneath my dress.
"Perfect," he growls, fingers finding me already wet for him. "So fucking perfect for me."
My head falls back against the mirrored wall as he strokes me, expert fingers knowing exactly how to touch me now. He's learned my body better in a week than I have in twenty-four years.
"Please," I whimper, hips rocking against his hand.
"Patience, angel." His voice is dark honey in my ear. "We've got all night."
And we do. Hours spent in his bed—our bed now—with his hands and mouth mapping every inch of me.
Low commands in my ear, breathless praise—"so perfect, angel, look how you take me, this body was made for my hands"—until I'm boneless, mindless, existing only in the space between his heartbeat and mine.
Sometimes I try to remember my apartment—the cramped studio with its secondhand furniture and always-leaking bathroom sink. The view of the alley instead of the glittering Vegas Strip. It's getting harder to recall, like a dream fading upon waking.
"What are you thinking about?" Fabio asks, fingers tracing patterns on my bare back as we lie tangled in the sheets afterward.
"My apartment," I admit. "I should probably go check on it. Pay rent. Something."
His hand pauses momentarily. "Do you want to go back there?"
"To visit, maybe. Not to stay."
His arms tighten around me. "I'll send someone for anything you want brought here."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He rolls me beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure pinning me to the mattress. "I want you here. With me. Always."
The intensity in his eyes should frighten me. Should make me feel trapped. Instead, it makes me feel treasured. Protected. Chosen.
"Okay," I whisper.
His smile—rare and transformative—makes my heart flip. He kisses me deeply, one hand sliding between my thighs to find me still wet, sensitive.
"Again?" I ask, surprised by my body's instant response to his touch.
"Always." He nips at my lower lip. "I can't get enough of you."
His fingers circle my clit, and I arch into his touch, surrender washing over me in waves. This is what it's like now—constant desire, constant satisfaction. His orbit, his warmth, his consuming devotion feels more like home than anything ever did.
Later, I lie awake while he sleeps beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. Outside, Vegas continues its neon pulse, never sleeping, always hungry. Inside this penthouse, I've found a different kind of hunger—mutual, matched, met stroke for stroke.
My phone sits untouched on the nightstand. There are probably messages from friends wondering where I've disappeared to. Emails from work asking when I'll be back. A life waiting for me to return to it.
I roll toward Fabio, press my face against his chest, breathe in his scent—expensive cologne, clean skin, something darker that's uniquely him. His arm tightens around me automatically, even in sleep protective, possessive.
That other life seems very far away now. A story I read once about someone else. This—his heartbeat under my palm, his body curved around mine—this is real. This is now. This is home.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.