Chapter 10 Gabriella
He comes into the bedroom just as I'm toweling my hair dry. No tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top buttons of his shirt undone.
And in his hand?
A bottle I know very well. Oh, hello, old friend. It's the rare, stupidly expensive whiskey I liberated a sip from after picking the lock to his liquor cabinet.
"I brought this up from my study," he says, watching me over the neck of the bottle like it's a loaded gun. "It’s a special bottle."
Of course he'd say that. He’s testing me.
I give him my best warm-but-innocent smile, the one that says sweet newlywed wife, not international woman of mystery.
"I don't usually drink whiskey," I say lightly, as if confessing a girlish preference. "Champagne is more my thing."
One of his brow tilts just slightly. "You'll like this one."
I shrug like it's no big deal. "I’ll try it, if you insist."
He takes two heavy-bottomed glasses from the shelf and pours. The deep amber whiskey catches the lamplight. The scent curls in the space between us, dragging me right back to that stolen sip in the quiet of his study and the illicit thrill of doing something I absolutely shouldn't.
He hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine. No accident there. His eyes don't leave my face. He's looking for something. A blink. A hesitation. The give-away flinch of someone outside her comfort zone.
Not tonight, husband.
I swirl the whiskey gently, pretending I'm watching the way it clings to the glass. Really, I'm buying half a second to slip back into that memory, how it burned and bloomed on my tongue, how the heat lingered in my chest. The man knows good whiskey.
Then I sip. Slow. A measured mouthful that I let roll over my tongue before swallowing. No wince. No cough. No "oh gosh, it's strong" little gasp. Just appreciation.
"Mmm," I say, setting the glass down like I could take it or leave it. "It's nice. Smoother than I expected."
His gaze sharpens, not suspicion exactly, but something heavier. Something that makes my pulse quicken.
"Not what you were expecting?" he asks.
"It's... good," I say, letting the warmth spread through me. "Stronger than champagne, but nice."
He moves in fast. "I want to taste your first drink of expensive whiskey."
Too late for that, I want to say.
Before I can answer, he's got a hand at the back of my neck and his mouth is on mine. Not soft, not sweet, but deliberate. He kisses like he's claiming territory, and when his tongue slides against mine, I feel the slow burn of the whiskey pass from me to him.
When he pulls back, his eyes stay locked on mine. "You’re right," he murmurs, almost to himself. "It is nice. Much better this way than from the bottle."
I laugh softly, but inside, my mind's running full-speed. I've just given him a version of Sofia he's never met. One who doesn't choke or flinch, one who meets him drink for drink.
"Do you always say that to your drinking partners?" I tease.
His mouth curves, but there's no humor in it. "No. Only when I'm about to have them for dessert."
He takes his glass and mine, refills them both. The delicious scent hits me again and I can't help inhaling. He notices.
"Stand up," he says, voice gone velvet and command all at once.
I do. My sundress flutters against my thighs. He steps in close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. "This whiskey," he says, holding up the glass, "is extremely expensive. One of my prize bottles. I don't share it lightly."
"I'm honored," I say.
There’s no doubt in my mind, he knows I broke the seal on the bottle. I’m well aware the cameras are everywhere in this house.
He takes a slow sip, then tips the glass toward me. "I want to share it with you again. But not like before."
My brows lift. "No?"
"No."
His free hand trails down my arm to my wrist, turning my palm up. He pours the faintest stream into it. Warm, sticky, fragrant.
"Taste it,” he commands.
I glance up at him through my lashes, then bring my palm to my lips, licking it slowly. The whiskey is hotter this way, sharper, and I make a small sound I can't swallow back.
He sets both glasses on the low table. "Now, take off your dress."
I pause, pretending innocence. "Here?"
"Yes. Here."
We both know it's a game layered on top of another game. I slide the straps off my shoulders, let the dress slide down to the floor. His gaze tracks every inch of bare skin.
He picks up his glass again, takes a mouthful, and then bends, pressing his lips to the hollow of my throat. Warm liquid trickles from his mouth onto my skin. I gasp. He licks it away slowly, following the path down to my collarbone. The whiskey mingles with his breath, and my knees almost give.
"Hold still," he murmurs against my skin.
I try though it’s hard. Especially when he pours another slow ribbon down the center of my chest. His mouth tracks the trail as it slips lower, pooling between my breasts. His tongue is warm, his pace slow and deliberate. He's savoring me.
By the time he reaches my stomach, my breathing is shallow. I force myself to keep my expression soft, the way Sofia would. But inside, I’m pacing like a caged thing, wanting more, wanting faster.
He looks up at me from his knees, glass in hand. "Still like champagne better?"
I wet my lips. "This is... growing on me."
Something dark flares in his eyes. The glass is set aside, and his hands slide to my hips, pulling me forward until I'm pressed to his chest. His mouth is on mine again, deeper, hungrier, tasting the whiskey and my answer all at once.
"You've been lying to me, Sofia," he says against my lips, and the sound of my sister's name in his mouth alarms me.
I keep my tone mild. "About what?"
He tips his glass, letting another ribbon of whiskey trace my collarbone.
"About what you like. About who you are.
" His gaze tracks the trail as it slips lower.
"You told me champagne was your drink...
bubbly, sweet." He dips his head and I feel the brush of his mouth as he follows the line with his tongue.
"But you took my most expensive whiskey in one smooth swallow like you've been doing it your whole life. "
"I was being polite," I reply, trying not to shiver.
"Polite doesn't look like that," he says. "Polite doesn't savor." He tips the glass again, this time letting the whiskey find the hollow of my stomach. The chill bites before his hand spreads there, warm, anchoring me in place.
"You're imagining things," I whisper.
He laughs against my skin, a dangerous, intimate sound. "I don't imagine. I watch. And I never forget."
His mouth follows the path upward again, slow and deliberate, tasting every place the whiskey touched. When he reaches my throat, he pauses, holding my chin in his hand so I can't look away.
"You wear sweetness like perfume," he says, the words brushing against my cheek. "But underneath there's something richer."
The kiss that follows is slower, but no less consuming. It's as if he's trying to strip away every layer of polite Sofia until he finds what's underneath. I sense it in the way his tongue traces the shape of my lower lip.
When he breaks the kiss, his breath is warm at my ear. "Tell me something true."
I blink at him, the question slicing straight through the haze. "What do you mean?"
"Something you haven't told me before," he says. "A secret only I get to know."
He doesn't move, doesn't blink, just waits and I realize this is more than a game now. This is him deciding whether to believe in the woman standing in front of him, or dismantle her piece by piece until he does.
I make my smile soft, almost hesitant, the way Sofia's would be. But inside, I weigh which truth will keep me alive in this room.
He hooks a finger under my chin, forcing my eyes to stay on his.
“You’re too careful,” he says quietly, almost like it’s a compliment. “Every word, every move. Even when you pretend to let go, you’re still holding something back.”
I tilt my head, giving him a faint, questioning smile. “I thought men loved a little mystery.”
His thumb strokes the line of my jaw, deceptively gentle. “Mystery is for strangers. You are in my bed. You’re my wife.”
The words land heavy.
“Maybe I’m shy. All this is new to me.”
“Or maybe you lie like you drink whiskey,” he replies, his mouth so close I can breathe the ghost of his breath. “Smooth.”
“And you don’t like that?”
His gaze drags down my face, my throat, lingering on the faint sheen of whiskey still drying on my skin. “Oh, I like it,” he says, the words slow as poured honey. “I just want you to tell me something true.”
I wet my lips, the burn of the whiskey lingering there. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll take the truth another way.”
My mind races to come up with something, anything to appease him.
I’ve got nothing.
His hand tightens at the back of my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who’s holding the line between play and something else entirely.
“You had your chance to talk. Now I’ll take your truth.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s pushing me onto the bed and kissing me again with a force that leaves no space to breathe in anything but him.
One hand stays tangled in my hair, keeping me exactly where he wants me, while the other skims down my side until it rests at the curve of my hip.
He breaks the kiss only to pour another ribbon of whiskey along the inside of my thigh. The cool shock makes me twitch, and his grip tightens.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
Then his mouth is there, hot, slow, following the trail upward. Each stroke of his tongue is a question and an answer all at once. My breath hitches, but I keep my expression soft, the way Sofia would… even as I strain against the act.
“Your truth is written here,” he says, brushing his fingers over the flutter of my pulse. “In how you breathe. In how you taste. In what you can’t hide.”
And then his mouth is on me again, harder this time, like he’s sealing something between us. I taste the whiskey, and the dangerous certainty that Luca has decided my truth is his to uncover.
“You’re breathing faster. Is that because you’re nervous or because you like where I’ve got you?”
“Maybe both.”
He laughs softly. “You’ll learn I don’t like ‘maybe.’”
The bottle tilts again. He doesn’t rush to taste it. Instead, he drags his thumb through the warm trail and lifts it to my mouth.
“Open your mouth and suck.”
It’s not a request. I wrap my lips around his thumb, tasting the burn of the whiskey mixed on his skin. His gaze doesn’t move from my face as I swirl my tongue against him.
“Still hiding from me?” he asks, when his hand slips between my thighs.
I can’t bite back the sound that slips from my throat.
“There’s the truth, right there,” he says.
His fingers hook in the edge of my panties, pulling them down my thighs without breaking eye contact.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” he says, pushing me back into the pillows. “Every secret. Every lie. Every truth you thought you’d keep from me. But first—”
He kisses his way down my stomach. “Spread your legs for me,” he orders.
My legs obey before my mind can catch up.
He settles between them, his shoulders forcing me wider, and the first stroke of his tongue makes my hips jolt.
He doesn’t warm me up. He devours me—deep, relentless, his mouth working like he’s chasing a truth from my body instead of my lips.
His fingers join the rhythm, curling until my vision goes black.
“Luca—” It’s half a plea, half a warning, but his grip on my thigh tightens, anchoring me down.
“You’re not done,” he says, rubbing his beard stubble against my inner thigh “Not until I say you’re done.”
The pressure builds too fast. My hands are in his hair, holding on, dragging him closer as if I can’t get enough.
Because I can’t.
The second I orgasm, it’s hard and hot, my pulse roaring in my ears, and he doesn’t stop. He takes every aftershock, every shiver, like payment.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth is wet, his smile dangerous. “You taste like a truth you’ll never be able to deny.”
And lying there, chest rising and falling, I know he’s right.