Chapter 3
Jess
The Range Rover is stupid nice. Like, the kind of nice where I’m afraid to touch anything.
Marco, the gentleman that he is, opens the door for me, and I slide into a world of white leather and wood grain with enough dashboard screens to run a small production studio.
“This is excessive,” I say, because humor is my love language and also my defense mechanism.
“It’s safe.” He closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side.
Right. Safe. Because billionaires worry about things like armored vehicles while I worry about whether my credit card will be declined.
“You don’t have a dedicated driver like other billionaires?” I taunt.
He shrugs. “I like to drive myself most of the time. Helps ground me. So where are we headed?”
I give him my address. He plugs it into the nav system. I’m well aware that it’ll be stored there until he deletes it. But I don’t really care.
I watch his hands on the wheel. Those chef hands. Long fingers, calluses on the fingertips.
I’m definitely staring. Unbidden, a social media hook comes to mind.
“When you realize you’re thirsting over a man’s hands like they’re a fine wine.”
200k views, easy.
Old habits.
“You okay?” Marco glances at me.
“Golden.” I force myself to look out the window instead of at him. In the rearview mirror, I catch headlights following at a steady distance. “Security team behind us?”
“Yes.”
“They always follow you?”
“Basically. It’s protocol.” He says it so casually, like having a security detail is the same as having a gym membership.
I snort. “Must be nice, having people whose entire job is to make sure you don’t die.”
“It’s less glamorous than you’d think.”
“I’m sure it’s terrible, being kept alive by professionals.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “I’ve missed the snark.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“It’s been almost... what... five minutes?”
I laugh, then fiddle with my bracelet, the thin silver one I’ve worn for years. It’s nothing special.
Target clearance rack, probably. But I love it anyway.
The little things, right?
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of me being acutely aware of every breath, every glance, every molecule of space between us. The car smells like leather and... Marco.
I want to bottle that scent and huff it like a drug.
Stop being so creepy, Jess.
We pull up to my building. It’s not terrible, but it’s definitely not the West Village. My apartment is a studio in a walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen. The kind of place where the elevator works half the time and the superintendent is perpetually “working on it.”
Marco parks. Cuts the engine. Looks at me.
“Last chance to back out,” he says quietly.
“Are you backing out?”
“Never.”
“Then neither am I.”
We get out. The follow vehicle idles at the curb but doesn’t follow us to the door.
Thank God.
The last thing I need is witnesses to my walk of shame.
Except it’s not a walk of shame if he’s coming to my place, right? It’s a... walk of... I don’t know... confidence? Desperation? Bad judgment?
All of the above.
I unlock the main door. We climb three flights because of course the elevator is broken tonight. By the time we reach my floor, I’m trying not to breathe too hard because I don’t want him to think I’m out of shape. Even though I am.
Cardio is not my friend.
It’s at times like these I envy the Tatiana’s of the world.
“Here.” I stop at 3C and fumble with my keys.
My hands are shaking.
Why are my hands shaking?
Because you’re about to have sex with a literal billionaire who looks like he was carved by Italian sculptors and probably has a very large—
Stop.
I get the door open. We step inside.
My apartment is exactly what you’d expect from an unemployed former influencer: small, cluttered with ring lights and tripods I haven’t used in months, IKEA furniture that’s holding on for dear life, and a general vibe of “trying really hard to be aesthetic but failing.”
“It’s not much,” I start, already apologizing.
“It’s everything. It’s you.” Marco closes the door behind him. Locks it.
The sound of that deadbolt sliding into place does something to my nervous system. It’s final. Intentional.
He fills my doorway. Six-two of well-dressed danger in my tiny studio, and the space feels even smaller. Like the walls are closing in. Like there’s not enough air.
“Tell me to leave,” he says, as if sensing my nerves.
It’s not a challenge. It’s a genuine offer. He’s giving me an out.
I could take it. I could say “this was a mistake” and show him the door and go back to my safe, boring, single life where the only thing that breaks my heart is an algorithm.
Instead, I reach up and unclasp my bracelet. I walk to the counter and deliberately set it down.
The sound of metal on laminate is loud in the quiet.
Marco’s eyes track the movement. He understands.
“You should go,” I tell him.
But I’m already crossing the room, already reaching for the sleeve of his henley. The fabric is soft under my fingers. Expensive. Everything about him is expensive, and here I am in my curves and clearance-rack jeans.
“You sure?” His voice is lower now. Rougher.
I lift my chin. Not quite meeting his eyes but close enough. “Are you going to make me beg?”
“Do you want to beg?”
Oh God.
My face goes hot. Full-body flush, the kind that starts at my toes and works its way up until I’m convinced I’m glowing.
“I—” My brain short-circuits. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”
“I’d like that.” He moves closer. Not touching yet, but close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough to smell the espresso and cedar and... him.
“But enough time for begging later,” he says softly. “For now, just breathe.”
And I breathe.
He waits.
Makes me wait.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Long enough that I start to squirm.
Long enough that the anticipation builds into something unbearable.
Then his hand comes up, and he cups my face. His palm is warm, slightly rough. His thumb traces my cheekbone, slow and deliberate.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and it’s not a line. It’s a fact, stated in that low steady voice that makes my knees weak.
“I’m really not.” The words come out automatically. Defense mechanism. “I’m just—”
“Beautiful.” He says it again, firmer this time. “And if you argue with me, I’m walking out that door.”
I shut up.
Smart girl.
His other hand settles on my hip. Not grabbing, just resting there. Grounding me. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Okay.”
“And then I’m going to make you cum on that couch you have over there.”
Oh.
“Not once,” he adds. “Not twice. But four times.”
“Okay,” I repeat, because apparently that’s the only word I know now.
He leans in. I tilt my head back. Our mouths meet, and—
Fuck.
He kisses like he’s been thinking about it for years. Slow and thorough and absolutely devastating. His tongue traces my bottom lip, asking permission, and I give it without hesitation. The kiss deepens. His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against him.
I can feel every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest, the muscle in his arms, the very obvious bulge in his jeans that makes me want to drop to my knees right here in my tiny kitchen and start sucking him off. I want to taste his cock so bad. I want to feel him inside me. I want...
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy.
“Couch,” he says. Command, not suggestion.
I lead him the three steps to my sad little IKEA couch. He sits like it’s the most luxurious furniture he’s ever encountered, pulling me down onto his lap so I’m straddling him. This position makes me super aware of every curve, every soft part of me pressing against every hard part of him.
“You’re thinking too much.” His hands slide up my sides, over my ribs. “I can see it.”
“I’m always thinking too much.”
“Then let me help you stop.”
His mouth finds mine again, and this time there’s more urgency behind it. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer until I can feel his incredible hardness beneath me. I rock against him instinctively, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling between my legs.
Fuck he’s amazing.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker. “Take off your shirt. Now.”
Not a question. Not even a please. Just a command, delivered in that low voice that brooks no argument.
I hesitate, suddenly self-conscious. In the soft glow of my apartment lights, I’m all too aware of every imperfection. Every curve that isn’t quite where society says it should be.
This is where I’d usually use flattering angles and good lighting.
His hand comes up, tilts my chin so I have to look at him. “I want to see you, Jess. You.”
The way he says my name makes me brave. I reach for the hem of my shirt, pull it over my head, and drop it to the floor. My bra is nothing special, just black cotton, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing the most luxurious lingerie in the world.
“Beautiful,” he says, and his hands span my waist, thumbs brushing just beneath my breasts.
“I’m really not—”
“Shh.” His thumb presses against my lips. “Stop arguing with me. You’re the most fucking gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
His mouth replaces his thumb, kissing me deeply while his hands move to the clasp of my bra. He unhooks it with embarrassing ease, and then my breasts are free, and his hands are there, warm and slightly rough against my skin.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans against my mouth. He pulls back to look at me, and I fight the urge to cover myself. “You’re perfect.”
His mouth moves to my neck, my collarbone, lower. When his lips close around my nipple, I arch into him with a gasp. His tongue flicks against the sensitive peak, and my hips rock of their own accord, seeking friction.
“So responsive.” He sounds pleased, almost smug. “I like that.”
He switches to my other breast, giving it the same thorough attention while his hand keeps working the first, rolling my nipple between his fingers just hard enough to make me whimper.
“Tell me what you want,” he says against my skin.
“You,” I breathe. “I want you.”
“Be specific.” His teeth graze my nipple, and I nearly come off the couch. “Use your words, Jess.”
I have plenty of words. Like ‘holy shit’ and ‘don’t stop’ and ‘marry me immediately.’
Fuck me fuck me fuck me now!
“I want—” My face heats up. I’m not shy about sex, but something about saying it out loud to Marco Fiore feels different. “I want your hands on me. And your mouth. And—”
“And?”
“And I want you inside me.”
He rewards me with a kiss that steals my breath. “Good girl.”
Two simple words that shouldn’t affect me so much, but they do. They send a fresh wave of heat between my legs, make me desperate for more.
His hands move to the button of my jeans. “Lift up.”
I rise slightly, and he unbuttons my jeans, slides the zipper down. His hand slips inside, over my underwear, and I can’t help the sound I make when his fingers press against me.
“You’re so wet.” His voice is rough, reverent. “You weren’t joking earlier at the bar about being wet, were you. That’s for me?”
“Yes,” I coo. “All for you. Panty-Wetting Marco.”
“Stand up.”
I do, my legs shaky. He hooks his fingers in my jeans and underwear, pulling them down in one smooth motion. And then I’m standing naked in front of him while he’s still fully dressed, and it should feel unbalanced, but somehow it just feels right.
His eyes travel over me slowly, taking in every inch, every curve. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only heat and appreciation.
“Turn around,” he says. “Slowly.”
I do, feeling more exposed with every degree of rotation. When I’m facing him again, his expression has intensified.
“Come back here.”
I move back to the couch, and he guides me onto him so I straddle his lap again. The rough fabric of his jeans against my bare skin makes me shiver. His hands run up my thighs to my hips, gripping firmly.
“Who do you belong?” he asks, his voice low and serious.
The question catches me off guard. It’s possessive, almost primal. It should offend my sensibilities, but instead, it sends a thrill through me.
“You,” I whisper.
“Say it again.”
“I belong to you.” Right now, in this moment, it feels like the truest thing I’ve ever said.