Chapter 18 #2
Inside is a golden dress that looks like it was spun from champagne and candlelight.
The fabric catches the glow of my bedside lamp, shimmering with the kind of elegance I’ve only ever seen on movie stars.
It’s soft, luxurious, and cut in a way that I know will hug every curve I’ve got.
There’s a plunging neckline and delicate straps, the kind of design that says this wasn’t just picked for beauty.
It was picked for me.
A small envelope is tucked beside the dress. Inside is a note in Lorenzo’s bold handwriting:
For my Christmas angel.
Wear this and make it impossible for me to behave.
—L.
My pulse skips. This man. Even when he’s not here, he makes me feel seen. Wanted.
I trail my fingers over the fabric, then glance toward the clock. It’s almost time. And for once, I don’t feel like a guest in this house. I feel like something more.
I slip into the dress, and for a moment I just… stare.
It fits like it was sewn for me. The fabric glides over my skin, hugging the right places and skimming the rest like liquid gold. The neckline dips just enough to tease, and the way the skirt catches the light when I move—it’s like wearing a secret.
Lorenzo knew what this would do to me.
I sit at the vanity and start on my makeup, but I stop after a few strokes of highlighter and a soft sweep of gold on my eyelids. The dress is already doing all the talking. All I need is a little mascara and gloss to look like the kind of woman who wears this sort of thing with ease.
I’m not sure who she is yet but tonight, I want to be her.
I run a brush through my hair, leaving it down in soft waves. One final glance in the mirror and I inhale sharply. I don’t look like a prisoner. I don’t even look like a guest.
I look like I belong here.
I make my way downstairs as the grandfather clock chimes eight. The scent of roasted rosemary and butter drifts from the kitchen, warm and inviting.
But it’s nothing compared to the man waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
Lorenzo stands tall, dressed in all black. Black shirt, black slacks, sleeves rolled just enough to show the sharp line of his forearms. No tie, but somehow still elegant. Dangerous. His gaze lifts the moment he hears my heels tap against the marble and he stills.
“Cara,” he breathes, like the word has been stolen from him. “You look stunning.”
His voice wraps around me like silk and something deeper coils in my chest.
I reach for his offered arm, anchoring myself to him. “You’re looking pretty good yourself.”
He hums in approval, his eyes never leaving mine. “I should cancel dinner and keep you all to myself.”
“Tempting,” I murmur, letting my fingers tighten on his arm just enough to make a point, “but you did say this was tradition.”
His smirk curves slow and wicked. “One I suddenly regret starting.”
He guides me toward the candlelit dining room where Rosa’s done something magical. Everything is soft light and glittering gold, from the tableware to the way the wine sparkles in our glasses.
But the tension between us—that’s not soft. That’s sharp. Heavy. Every time our hands brush. Every time his gaze lingers a little too long. Every time I remember exactly how his voice sounded last night when he growled my name. This isn’t just dinner. This is the fuse being lit.
We make it halfway through the meal before Lorenzo stands.
“Get over here. Now.”
I do as he says, lifting my face to his and then his mouth crashes onto mine in a kiss that’s nothing short of ravenous. There’s nothing gentle about it. Nothing hesitant.
It’s all hunger and heat and possession, like he’s been starving and I’m the first real taste he’s allowed himself in years. His lips devour mine, coax and command in the same breath, stealing every thought I had before he touched me.
He tastes like wine and want and something darker I can’t name. Something dangerous. Something addictive.
His hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head just how he likes, deepening the kiss until the world tilts with it. My breath shatters. My pulse surges. And when his tongue grazes mine, it feels like a match being struck inside my chest.
Like he’s kissing me with every intention of marking me from the inside out.
Like he’s claiming me and daring me to claim him right back.
My back hits the edge of the table. In one swift motion, he clears it—crystal, candles, cutlery—all clattering to the floor in a chaos I barely register because his hands are already on me.
I laugh, breathless, but it catches in my throat as he spins me around.
“Lorenzo—”
He lifts the skirt of my dress with slow, deliberate hands. His palm skims the back of my thigh, firm and warm.
“Do you know,” he growls low in my ear, “how many times I thought about this since I bought that dress?”
I brace my hands on the table, my pulse pounding like a drum.
He leans in, lips brushing my neck. “Now I get to unwrap my gift.”
I feel the heat of his breath as he presses against me, his hands skating up beneath the hem of the dress like he owns every inch of my skin.
His voice is rough at my ear. “Do you feel that, Elizabeth?”
I nod, unable to speak, the air thick between us, as he rubs my clit in slow circles.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I want you to remember this moment.”
The table shifts slightly beneath my palms as he moves behind me, slow and sure, every touch deliberate, every pause a tease. I groan when he slips a finger past my panties, stroking me.
“So wet, cara. Is that all for me?”
“Y-yes,” I stutter as he adds another digit.
Outside, the city glows with holiday lights. Inside, it’s all shadows and firelight and him. There’s nothing gentle in the way he takes his time. Nothing sweet in the way he demands every part of me. And I give it to him. Willingly. Desperately.
The dress rides higher. My name becomes a growl on his lips as he rubs against me.
“Lorenzo, please,” I beg.
The sound of his zipper lowering nearly has me weeping.
“You want my cock, cara?”
“Yes.”
We both groan as he slides into me. He pulls back and then stills.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he says in a deep voice that has me dripping even more. “How I’d take you.”
“Me too,” I admit, glancing over my shoulder.
“Did you.” He slowly thrusts inside. “Tell me, what did you think about, cara?”
I shudder at how good I feel right now.
“I thought about last night. How full you made me feel.”
He rocks into me again, humming under his breath, so I continue.
“I also wondered what it’d be like to…”
“To what?”
I bite my lip and glance at him again. “To give you a blow job.”
His nostrils flair and he mutters something under his breath in Italian, his fingers dig into my hips.
“Anything else?”
“Mmmhmm.” I gaps as he rocks into me harder this time. “I want to ride you.”
“Fuck, Elizabeth.” He thrusts again, shaking the table. “I vote yes to all of those.”
My laugh turns into a gasp as he thrusts deep, hitting a spot I’ve only heard of.
“Oh my god,” I moan.
“No god here, cara. Just me.”
He hits that spot again and hot pleasure coils deep inside of me. My orgasm builds and I know it’s going to be intense.
“Lorenzo,” I pant. “I’m so close.”
One of his hands snakes around to my front. I think he’s going to rub my clit, but he moves higher, slipping into the front of my dress.
“I had a fantasy about these,” he says, cupping a breast. “How they’d look full of milk to feed my baby.”
I gasp as he thrusts and rubs my nipple at the same time.
“Tell me, cara, do you want to have my babies?”
Hot pleasure coils through me and it’s so intense that my eyes roll back and my toes curl.
Lorenzo stills, hit hot breath hitting my ear. “I asked you a question, Elizabeth.”
“Y-yes,” I manage. “I want to have your babies.”
He makes a satisfied sound and then thrusts two more times before I shatter. And, my god, the orgasm goes on and on.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m gonna put a baby in you, cara.”
I gasp as he comes, pulsing hot and deep inside of me. His release makes me come again and this time it’s even more intense.
“That’s right. Let that sweet pussy milk my cock dry.”
We lie there, him still inside of me, both of us panting. But the only thing I can think about is what he said.
Do you want to have my babies?
The question loops in my mind, slow and echoing, like the final note of a song I wasn’t ready to end.
I’ve never really pictured myself as a mother. Never lingered in baby aisles or imagined soft lullabies and sleepy eyes that looked like mine. Not because I didn’t want it but because I’d never been with someone who made the future feel like more than a trap.
But Lorenzo doesn’t make me want to run.
He makes me want to root. To stay. To build.
He makes me want things I used to laugh at.
Things like a house with extra bedrooms. Sunday mornings wrapped in sheets and sticky fingers from pancake syrup.
Little feet pounding the floor and tiny hands that reach for mine—hands that might have his dark eyes and my stubborn heart.
He makes me want everything.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because I know men like him don't give you forever. They give you now.
And I’m already in too deep.
But when he says, “Let’s go to your room. I want to fuck you properly.” I don’t say no.