Chapter 5 Lila
LILA
Milan, Five years earlier
This isn’t a hotel. The door’s thick, the hinges glide like they were built for vaults, and a discreet lens in the hall clicks once as it recognizes him.
Inside, everything’s spare and expensive, stone and dark wood.
Floor-to-ceiling windows turn the city into a dark lake.
The cathedral sits in the distance like a lit jewel.
The kitchen’s surgical, but the fridge holds Pellegrino and olives, and the linen smells like fresh cotton.
It feels like a haven that offers room service.
I like the way he smells in here. Clean soap, a dry cologne that stays close to skin, and something warm I can’t name.
Tonight’s still humming in my chest. The showstopper, the finale, the flash.
The girl from a small town whose mother baked through winters just walked into a room with locks that listens to veins and a view that can make anyone feel untouchable.
It’s heady, and the headiness makes me brave.
He opens a bottle without ceremony. Barolo. The label’s old-school and polite. He pours a small measure. I taste cherries and smoke and something earthy that lands low. It goes down smooth. I pour a little more and lean against the counter as if I belong here.
“We’ll never finish it,” he says.
“We could try,” I say and tip the bottle again. He watches, not judging, just tracking.
The jacket comes off first, then the holster disappears into a safe I don’t ask about. He moves like someone who clears rooms for a living and likes it when his furniture doesn’t argue. He unbuttons his shirt to the sternum, then takes it off. My mouth goes dry.
He’s six foot two and built like a workhorse.
Broad through the chest, tapered at the waist, strength without show.
Dark hair cut close at the sides, a little longer on top, the kind that would muss easily if I touched it.
Those eyes are deep brown and unreadable until they’re not, and for a second, they’re not.
A thin line runs along his ribs, silver against skin.
Ink spreads across his left chest in a crest I don’t recognize and bands his bicep in matte black rings.
The shirt comes off. Script in Italian curls along his inner forearm. I trace the letters with my eyes. “What does it say?” I ask.
“Fortune favors the bold,” he answers and grins.
“Does it?”
“Sometimes,” he says.
I tip my head toward the glass. “The view sold me already.”
“The view’s a trick,” he says. “Looks close enough to touch, never is.”
“Maybe I like tricks,” I say and step closer.
He pours again, just enough to warm a line down my throat, then takes the glass from my fingers and sets it aside.
He doesn’t crowd. He waits. I let my hand skim from his shoulder to the crest, pause, then flatten at his heart.
Heat pours off him. The tattoos look like choices he meant.
I should ask who he is and why he stands apart in rooms full of money.
I don’t. I look at the scars on his knuckles, and I already know the answer will be a wall, and I like that the wall’s honest.
“Tell me a lie,” I say.
“I am an accountant,” he says, mouth tipping.
“Then count this,” I murmur and kiss him.
The kiss starts slow, then finds its pace.
He tastes like Barolo and restraint. He studies my face like he wants to memorize it, then studies my mouth like he wants to forget the rest of the world.
One of his hands settles at my hip and makes my knees feel unreliable.
He’s careful without asking if I need careful, and that melts me faster than anything reckless could.
The city glows behind us. My dress slides, silk against skin, a soft sound in a hard room.
We leave a small constellation of things behind us as we move. My shoes toe off near the window. His shirt lies open on the back of a chair, cuffs still buttoned. The bottle sits on the counter with two fingerprints low on the glass. We don’t finish it.
He lifts me, and I go easily, back against cool linen, his mouth at my throat, his hand firm at my thigh.
The tattoos are warm under my palm. The scar at his ribs catches light and then disappears under my fingers.
Every line of him feels like focus. He’s all control until I pull him under with me, and the sound that leaves him is low and real.
The linen sheets whisper against my skin as his weight settles over me, a deliberate anchor in the dim glow of the room.
His mouth traces a path from my throat to the hollow of my collarbone, hot and unhurried, each kiss pulling a shiver from deep in my core.
I arch into him, fingers digging into the broad planes of his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath ink and scar, like tracing the ridges of a mountain range under storm clouds.
The air smells of him—clean soap laced with that warm, unnamed spice—and the faint metallic tang of the city seeping through the glass.
My dress is a crumpled barrier now, hiked up around my hips, silk pooling like spilled wine.
He pauses, breath ragged against my skin, those deep brown eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that strips away the haze of the Barolo.
"You're sure?" he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, not demanding but checking, his thumb circling the inside of my thigh in a way that sends sparks skittering up my spine.
I nod, pulling him closer, my nails scraping lightly over the script on his forearm.
"Fortune favors the bold," I whisper back, echoing his tattoo, and it's enough.
His mouth claims mine again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that tastes like smoke and cherries.
His hand slips under the hem of my dress, fingers brushing the lace edge of my panties, teasing until I'm gasping into his kiss.
The fabric's damp already, clinging, and he groans a low mmph in his throat when he feels it, the sound vibrating through his chest like distant thunder.
He hooks his fingers and tugs, the lace giving way with a soft rip that echoes in the quiet room.
Cool air hits my exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat building between us, and I buck against him, needy.
His touch is everywhere now— palms sliding up my sides, pushing the dress higher until it's bunched at my waist, exposing the soft curve of my belly, the swell of my breasts straining against the thin straps.
He breaks the kiss to watch me, eyes dark as the Barolo, and peels the dress off entirely, letting it flutter to the floor like a shed skin.
Naked now, save for the flush creeping over me, I feel the room's chill kiss my nipples into tight peaks, but his gaze warms them, makes them ache.
"You're beautiful," he says, not as flattery but fact, his voice a low rumble that coils low in my gut.
He dips his head, mouth closing over one breast, tongue flicking with a wet, sucking heat that draws a sharp ahh from my lips.
His free hand kneads the other, thumb rolling the peak until I'm writhing, the linen twisting beneath me.
The city lights flicker beyond the window, casting shifting shadows over his shoulders, turning the ink on his chest into living patterns, like ancient runes awakening.
I reach for him, fumbling with his belt, the leather cool and supple under my fingers.
It unbuckles with a metallic clink, and I shove his pants down, freeing him.
He's hard, thick, the velvet length of his cock springing free, heavy and hot against my thigh.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking slow from base to tip, feeling the pulse throb under my palm, the bead of pre-cum slicking my fingers.
He hisses, hips jerking into my grip, and the control in his eyes fractures just a fraction, enough to make my pulse race.
"Not yet," he growls, capturing my wrist gently but firmly, pinning it above my head.
His other hand parts my thighs, fingers delving between, finding me wet and swollen.
He circles my clit with a feather-light touch, then presses, rubbing in tight, insistent strokes that make my vision blur.
Oh… fuck… The pleasure builds like a wave, sensory overload—the scrape of his stubble on my inner thigh as he kisses lower, the musky scent of my arousal mixing with his cologne, the distant hum of Milan traffic like a heartbeat syncing with mine.
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, and I cry out, back bowing off the bed.
The stretch is exquisite, his thumb still working my clit, pumping in a rhythm that has me clenching around him, slick sounds filling the air.
"So tight," he murmurs against my skin, voice husky, "like you were made for this.
" I come undone then, the orgasm crashing over me in hot, shuddering waves, my walls fluttering around his fingers, juices coating his hand as I gasp and tremble, the world narrowing to the pulse between my legs.
But he doesn't stop, doesn't let me catch my breath.
He withdraws his fingers, slick and shining, and brings them to my lips.
I taste myself on him—salty-sweet, intimate—and suck them clean, eyes locked on his.
That does it. The restraint snaps. He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging my folds, teasing with shallow thrusts that coat him in my wetness.
Then he pushes in, slow and deep, inch by inch, stretching me until I'm full, gasping at the burn-pleasure of it.
He fills me completely, hips flush against mine, and we both still for a moment, breathing hard, the connection electric.