15. Chapter Fifteen #2
The romance of the moment dies a quick, shivering death as we take turns darting under the stream.
One of us is freezing while the other gets the water, leading to a frantic, uncoordinated scramble to soap up and get out.
We’re a mess of elbows, slippery limbs, and chattering teeth, joking about the logistical nightmare of our height difference.
By the time we step out and start to towel off, the shivering turns into genuine laughter. I catch our reflection in the steamed-up mirror—me, small and flushed, and him, a towering, dark shadow standing right behind me.
He doesn't say a word as he drops his towel and steps into my space, wrapping his damp arms around my waist. He pulls my back flush against his chest, and the humor of the shower evaporates. I feel it then. The weighty, insistent pulse of his erection pressing against me from behind.
The air in the small ensuite suddenly feels thick with the scent of damp skin and the electric charge of a man who is, as promised, clearly not done with me.
Without a word, Luca’s hands slide up to my breasts. His touch isn’t gentle; it’s rough, fervent, and entirely possessive. He massages the heavy weight of them before catching both my nipples between his blunt fingers, pinching them with a harsh pressure that makes my breath hitch.
He doesn't look away. His gaze is locked onto mine in the steamed-up mirror, dark and predatory.
One hand leaves my chest, sliding down the curve of my stomach until he finds my center.
He doesn’t rush. He works slow, agonizing circles in and around my wetness, his eyes boring into mine as if he’s cataloging every shiver, every tiny gasp I let out.
He’s harder now, a persistent heat pulsing against my backside, and I can tell he’s done playing the part of the patient suitor.
My husband is hungry.
I’ve studied his profile online. He’s a born leader. Next in line for team captain. This is the man who leads on the field. This is the man who demands order. This is who is about to send me into another dimension with his delectable dick.
He grips my hips and bends me forward over the marble counter, my palms slapping against the cold surface for balance. I feel him positioning himself, the broad head of his dick probing at my entrance, and a wave of panicked heat washes over me.
“Be gentle,” I breathe, my voice trembling. “You had a lot of fun last night, Luca. I’m still…”
“Shhhh.” He catches my gaze in the mirror, his expression turning stone-cold and commanding. There is no playfulness left in him. Only the focused authority of a man who knows exactly how to take what…who belongs to him. “Don’t tell me how to fuck my wife, Aspen.”
Then he lunges forward, burying himself inside me in one…no, two…smooth, tantalizing thrusts.
“Ah! Luca!” I cry out, my head tossing back as the sheer depth of him stretches me to the limit. “It’s... it’s too deep.”
“Look at me,” he commands, his hand catching my jaw to force my eyes back to his reflection in the steamed-up mirror.
He doesn’t move, holding himself perfectly still so I can feel every agonizing inch of him filling me fully.
“Look at me like I’m the first man to feed you like this. Stretching you. Only for me.”
And I do. Only for him.
He begins to move then, a slow, punishing rhythm designed for his pleasure as much as my undoing.
Each time he bottoms out, he grinds his hips against me, his thumb finding that sensitive bud and pinning it right where I need it most. The friction is blinding.
I’m a mess of whimpers and broken pleas, my fingers scratching at the marble as he dictates the pace of my pleasure.
“Please,” I moan, the word falling apart in my throat.
“Please what?” he growls, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear. “Please give you more? Please fuck you harder? Please make you mine in every way?”
“Luca.”
“Please, what? And open your fucking eyes.”
“Slower,” I beg.
He kisses my shoulder. Then slows, granting me a small ounce of relief.
But my husband is still buried deep inside me, and I’m already nearing my limit.
As the fog clears from the mirrors, my mind remains a haze of confusion and bliss.
His head stays tucked into my neck, his rhythm shifting as he drives himself toward his own release.
“Fuck, Aspen. I need to know. When we leave here today...who do you belong to? Who do you choose?”
“Huh? What?”
I’m suddenly caught in the worst kind of love triangle known to womankind.
And this man is demanding I choose him right here, while he’s buried inside me.
How am I supposed to give a coherent answer under these conditions?
It’s tactical warfare. But fuck, he’s incredible.
He's tall, cultured, and sexy. And he’s mine.
“You,” I sob, my walls clenching around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse. “I’m yours. Luca! I want you.”
“Yes. That’s it,” he murmurs, his pace turning frantic, his breaths coming in harsh stabs. He grabs my ponytail and pulls, as he grabs my hip. “Take it all, wife. Take what's yours, because all of you fucking belongs to me.”
It’s a lot of bravado for a man who seemed tortured by loyalty to his friend just a few moments ago. But I take it. All of him. And in return, I give him every part of me.
At that moment, he hits a spot so deep I see stars, and the world finally fractures.
My climax hits me like a freight train. It’s a violent, shaking release that leaves me sobbing at my reflection in the mirror.
I feel him follow me a second later as a low, guttural roar escapes him.
He thrusts one last time, pinning me to the counter as he seems to change my last name by writing it deep inside me.
He stays there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the back of my neck, both of us heaving for air in the quiet bathroom. The dominance hasn't faded. It’s just settled into something we both can manage.
Once we’re cleaned up and fully dried off, a knock sounds at the door.
“Food’s here!” I call out, pulling a silk robe over my damp skin. I feel lighter than I have in months, floating on a high that makes the world look brighter and finally right. I head toward the door, humming to myself as I snag my wallet from the entryway table.
I pull the door open, a wide, genuine smile already forming on my face to greet the delivery driver.
“Order for Aspen Hunter?” the girl asks, balancing a heavy brown bag that smells like glory.
“That’s me!” I say, reaching into my wallet and handing her a crisp twenty. “Do you mind the cash tip? I just like to make sure you actually get all of your coins.”
The girl’s eyes light up. “Absolutely not. Thank you so much! Have a great morning.”
She turns and jogs back toward the elevator, leaving me with the intoxicating scent of pecan pancakes and maple syrup. My stomach actually aches with anticipation—or maybe it's just the lingering flutter of Luca waiting for me in the other room.
I step back, my hip beginning to swing the door shut so I can get back to my husband.
But a person that steps off of the elevator as the delivery driver steps on and catches my eye. The air leaves my lungs in a silent, agonizing rush.
Standing there, looking happy and hopeful, and entirely too cheerful in a man-bun.
“Croix.”