43. Luca
Chapter forty-three
Luca
I ’ve had hundreds, if not thousands, of women wear my jersey, but not a single one has looked as good in it as Samara does.
And that thought alone fucking terrifies me.
I’m not sure when I first realized it, but everything about Samara makes me want to ravish every inch of her.
So when I see her heading back to her car after I’m finished cleaning up, I can’t help the fact that my legs literally drag me in her direction.
“Hey, princess, wait up!” I shout, jogging to catch up with her.
When her eyes catch on mine and she realizes who’s shouting behind her, she shakes her head and continues in the direction of her car.
Too bad for her: I like the chase.
“Oh, come on!” I yell, speeding up as I sidle her.
“Go away, Luca.” She groans as she makes it to the door of her Range Rover, pulling the door open. And before she can get in, I’m on her.
My hands rest on either side of her head, and I have to resist the urge to run my nose up the length of her neck. She smells so fucking good—intoxicating like cognac and something sweet like pralines.
God, why is this woman seemingly created just to test every ounce of my resolve?
“Luca, I want to go home,” she huffs out, but there’s no real annoyance in her words.
“Did you enjoy the game?” I ask, hoping she’ll somehow forget she’s not a fan of me.
“Yes, and now I want to go home and crawl into my bed, which I’m certain I’ll enjoy just as much, if not more,” she says, twisting her body to try and get into the car.
I don’t want her to feel caged in, so I lean away from her reluctantly. She slides into her seat, clipping her seatbelt quickly, and looks as if she’s about ready to pull away, whether I’m standing here or not.
“Have you eaten?” I ask her.
“I had a couple of beers and a pretzel,” she tells me with a pinched expression.
“That’s not a lot of food. Are you sure you’re safe to drive home?” I ask, leaning into her slightly but stopping myself.
I’ve always been careful about those around me drinking and driving, but ever since Gianni’s best friend passed away in that accident, I’ve arguably become even more paranoid about it.
“I assure you, I’m fine.” But the way her brows draw together marginally makes me think that she may be second-guessing herself.
“I live just around the corner, and you’re nearly a half hour away from here. Just come over, and I’ll make us some dinner and you can drive yourself home after you’ve gotten some food in your system. Please ,” I plead with her. I see the precise moment in which her hard exterior cracks.
“I promise you, I would never drive if I didn’t feel completely confident I was safe, and I’d never put other people at risk, but if it’ll make you feel better,” she sighs, relaxing back into her seat, “I’ll let you make me dinner. But after that, I’m gone, you got it?” she clarifies, her words stern, but they light me up inside. Fuck yeah!
I nod, probably a little too over excitedly, and close her car door, running across the parking lot to my motorcycle. I pull my helmet on and drive up behind her. She pulls out and heads toward my place. In less than two minutes, we’re pulling into my driveway.