Chapter Thirty-seven
Serena
I still can’t believe where I am.
Florence is a dream, warm, golden, alive in a way that feels like stepping into another century. And this house… this house isn’t a house at all. It’s an aristocratic mansion, every arch and balcony whispering history and wealth. But the view, God, the view steals my breath.
From Lorenzo’s bedroom, the land rolls out in lush green, the garden stretching in symmetrical perfection.
Roses, lilies, and flowers I can’t even name burst with color, scent carried up by the breeze.
A small artificial lake glimmers between the trees, lotus flowers drifting across its surface, swans moving with slow, regal grace.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Except him.
I push the thought away before it can root itself too deeply. I have to stop comparing everything beautiful to Lorenzo Moretti.
I slip out of bed quietly, moving through my morning ritual, skincare, light makeup: mascara to frame my eyes, a dusting of blush, baby-pink gloss.
My beige summer dress hugs my curves like it was made for me, the slit up my right thigh just enough to tease without giving too much away.
The corset back cinches my waist, the fabric smoothing over my hips.
I step into strappy nude heels, straighten my hair, and finish with a mist of my favorite Tom Ford perfume.
I’m ready to discover Florence.
And tonight, dinner with his mother.
Lorenzo is still asleep, stretched out on his stomach, one arm draped lazily over the side of the bed, the other tucked close to his body. His short, dark curls are messy across his forehead, and the morning light traces over his bare back, every muscle defined and relaxed.
I climb onto the bed and press a kiss to the warm skin between his shoulder blades. His muscles tighten beneath my lips.
In one smooth movement, he rolls over and catches me by the waist, pulling me down until I’m straddling him.
“Good morning,” I whisper, brushing my lips over his.
His hands slide lower, cupping my ass, and the heat rushes to my cheeks. My body reacts instantly, like it always does with him. It’s maddening, this pull, this lack of control he has over me.
“Good morning, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough from sleep. His palms roam over me like he’s memorizing every curve, and I can feel him hardening beneath me. The pressure makes my thighs tighten instinctively, and my pulse spikes.
We don’t have time for this. I tell myself that. We have plans. Florence is waiting.
“Get dressed. We need to go,” I say, trying for firmness. But as I shift to move off him, his hips tilt upward, and his erection presses exactly where it shouldn’t, and exactly where I need it.
His smirk is slow, wicked. “I’ve got a better idea.”
His mouth finds my neck, lips dragging heat over my skin. One hand slides under my dress, tracing the sensitive inside of my thigh until it’s hovering just where I’m already throbbing for him. My breath hitches.
He knows my body better than I do.
“This dress,” he murmurs against my skin, “on the floor.”
The fabric bunches at my waist, and the cool air hits my bare legs. My panties are already damp, and his knowing glance makes my blush deepen.
“And you,” his voice dips darker, “clenching around my cock.”
He pushes my panties aside with deliberate slowness, sliding a finger inside me while his thumb circles my clit. My back arches helplessly, a soft sound escaping my lips. His other hand cups my breast, his mouth closing around the nipple, sucking with just enough pressure to make my head fall back.
My hands grip his shoulders, my body already tilting toward surrender, even as the rational part of me whispers about Florence, about dinner, about time. But he’s relentless, and when Lorenzo wants something, there’s never any stopping him.
“Oh…” The sound slips from my lips before I can catch it. My hips move instinctively against his fingers, chasing the rhythm, and when he adds another, I clutch at his shoulders for balance. My free hand slides into his dark curls, gripping, grounding myself as pleasure blooms low in my belly.
“Lorenzo,” I moan, my voice unsteady, my body silently begging him to move faster.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough, rasped with sleep and desire. His mouth is still on my breasts, sucking, biting, making my skin burn. Then his gaze finds mine, and for a moment the air between us shifts, before his lips crush against mine, stealing my breath.
He pulls his fingers from me, leaving an ache, a sudden emptiness that makes me whimper.
He’s only in his boxers, but that doesn’t last, he peels them away, and suddenly I’m in his lap, my bare heat brushing against his length.
The contact alone makes me gasp, my hips moving just enough to feel the tease of him sliding against me.
“We need to go,” I say, breathless, though I can barely remember where. “I booked our whole day.”
He kisses me harder, his tongue sweeping through my mouth until my thoughts scatter. His teeth catch my lower lip, and then he murmurs against it, low and commanding, “Ride me, princess.”
Freaking hell.
It doesn’t take much, one slow lift of my hips, one deliberate slide down, and he’s filling me. No matter how many times we’ve done this, my body still has to stretch around him. He’s too big, and it’s too much, and yet I take all of him because I can’t not.
The moment is filthy and intimate all at once, my dress bunched at my waist, my legs braced on either side of him as I roll my hips in slow, deep movements that make my eyes close. His hand grips my waist, the other curling around my neck, holding me steady as he kisses me, hot, consuming.
For a few minutes, he lets me lead. I move at my own pace, savoring the drag of him inside me.
But then he flips us with effortless strength, his body covering mine.
I hook my legs around him, welcoming the shift, and he drives into me again, slower now, but deeper, each thrust pressing into something more than just my body.
His fingers lace around both my wrists, pinning them above my head, his other hand gripping my ass to keep me exactly where he wants me. His eyes never leave mine, and something in my chest tightens. This isn’t the way he usually fucks me.
It’s… different.
He kisses me everywhere, my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks, my chin, punctuating each one with another deep, deliberate thrust. My orgasm builds slowly, curling warm and tense inside me, and I can see in his eyes that he realizes it too.
Then he moves. Lifting me in his arms, my legs still wrapped around his waist, he carries me to the balcony. The sunlight hits us both, the morning air spilling in, the world stretching out in the distance.
He sets me on the stone ledge, still inside me, and begins to move again. Harder now.
“Tell me I’m all you need,” he growls, pushing deeper. My head falls back, my nails digging into the strong line of his shoulders.
“You can never move on from me.” His voice is rough, absolute.
“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” I breathe, and the truth of it shakes me.
He thrusts harder, deeper, the pleasure cresting and breaking over me in waves. My orgasm rips through me, my back arching, his name spilling from my lips in a scream. He doesn’t stop, driving me higher, touching my clit even as I shudder.
“Fuck,” he growls, and then he’s spilling inside me, holding me tight against him.
Something is different. In the way he looked at me. In the way he touched me. In the way I said those words, and the way he didn’t say them back.
We stay there for a moment, my body still perched on the warm stone of the balcony, his body between my legs. I turn toward the horizon, and the sight steals my breath.
“I could stare at this view forever,” I say, my voice still uneven.
“So could I,” he answers.
When I look back at him, I realize he’s not looking at the view at all.
He’s looking at me.
“I love ice cream!” I declare, grinning like a child on Christmas morning as I work my way through my second cup.
First was my favorite, Kinder Bueno, creamy and sweet with that perfect hazelnut crunch.
Then pistachio, then Nutella, which to my shock was actual Nutella, frozen and sinful.
After that came Amareno, tart and rich, and now… now I’m on mint chocolate. Again.
“That’s what you said about the last twenty desserts you inhaled earlier,” Lorenzo says dryly, though there’s a faint curve to his lips. He’s eating… fruit. And frozen yogurt. Of course he is.
I narrow my eyes at him over my spoon. “Are you from the dessert police?”
Before he can answer, I take another slow, blissful bite, closing my eyes like I’ve just ascended into heaven.
Then I’m up, dashing toward the perfect spot to capture the Duomo with my phone. The cathedral rises above the square, massive and ornate, the sunlight making the marble glow. I can’t believe I’m here.
“You’re going to get sick,” he calls after me, his voice lined with boredom.
“I watched Medici three times!” I turn, gesturing wildly at the cathedral. “I can’t believe I’m finally seeing the Duomo! Oh my God, your name is Lorenzo!”
One dark brow arches. “Yeah, that’s the name you’ve been moaning for the last few months.” His smirk is wicked, unapologetic.
I glare. “That’s not what I meant.” My voice drops to a hiss. “Lorenzo de’ Medici! Do you know him?”
“I think I was born in a different century,” he says flatly, as though the subject bores him to death.
My fingers itch to punch his perfect, smug face. “You’re insufferable.”
Instead of taking offense, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my lips. Just enough to make my chest tighten and my knees consider betrayal. I pretend it didn’t work. It definitely worked.
I turn back to the Duomo, snapping pictures from every angle, then dragging him into a few selfies. He looks like he stepped straight out of a luxury campaign, sharp jaw, those eyes, that air of quiet authority.