Chapter 4 #2
She starts to talk faster, her hands moving as she explains, and I find myself leaning forward, genuinely interested.
Not because I care about Minoan architecture—though her passion makes it compelling—but because I'm fascinated by her. By the way her mind works, the connections she makes, and how intelligent she is. It’s clear that Whitmore is threatened in some way by this, but I can’t imagine why or how.
Savannah is the most physically beautiful woman I’ve ever encountered, but when she’s like this, it’s like looking into the sun.
"That's brilliant," I say, studying her features. I want to memorize them. I want her image implanted on my retinas so she’s the only thing I ever see again.
She blushes. "It's just a theory. I need to do more research to support it."
"It's still brilliant. You really dig deep into this stuff. That analysis shows how excited you are about it.”
"Thank you." She's looking at me differently now, like she's reassessing something. "Most people's eyes glaze over when I start talking about archaeology."
"Most people are idiots."
She laughs—a real laugh, surprised and genuine—and I feel a strange sensation, like something warm spreading through my chest. I’m not sure what it is.
But I want to hear that laugh again. I want to be the one who causes it.
"Do you want to get coffee?" I ask. "Take a break? You've been working for hours."
She hesitates, and I can see the internal debate playing out on her face. She wants to say yes. But there's something holding her back—guilt, maybe, or propriety—the awareness that she's engaged to someone else.
"Just coffee," I say, keeping my voice light. "Between classmates. Nothing scandalous."
"Okay," she says finally. "Just coffee."
We go to a café near campus, and we talk for two hours—about archaeology, New York, our families, though I'm careful with what I reveal, giving her the sanitized version of the Ciresa family business.
She tells me about Charleston, and when she talks about her family and her social obligations, especially Thaddeus, I hear the frustration beneath her words, the sense of being trapped.
When we finally part ways, she's smiling, and I feel as if I’ve achieved a new victory, a sense of satisfaction humming through my veins.
This intimacy, this connection—it's more effective than watching from a distance. She's letting me in, slowly, and I'm patient enough to wait.
—
I'm in the graduate student lounge when I overhear two students from Dr. Kouris's seminar talking about forming a study group for the midterm.
One of them mentions that Savannah Beauregard is joining.
I insert myself into the conversation smoothly, expressing interest, and by the time Savannah arrives ten minutes later, I'm already part of the group.
She looks surprised to see me, but not displeased.
"Romeo. I didn't know you were interested in joining."
"Seemed like a good idea. I have a feeling the exam is going to be difficult.”
We meet twice a week after that, on Wednesdays and Fridays, in a study room on the third floor of the library. There are five of us in total, and the sessions are productive, with everyone contributing insights and challenging each other's interpretations. But I'm only really aware of Savannah.
She always seems to dominate the discussions.
Not because she’s aggressive—I truly can’t imagine a less aggressive woman, with her sweet Southern accent and her soft-spoken speech—but because of how incredibly intelligent she is.
She always has answers, thoughts, and when others speak, she always listens.
She’s never threatened by anyone else’s intelligence, either—I see the way she gets excited when someone makes a connection she hadn't considered, leaning forward with that light in her eyes.
During our third session, while we're debating the interpretation of a particular archaeological site, one of the other students—a guy named Bryce who's clearly interested in Savannah—makes a dismissive comment about her analysis.
"That's a pretty romantic interpretation," he says, his voice condescending. "You're reading too much into the symbolism."
Savannah's face flushes, but before she can respond, I speak up.
"Actually, her interpretation is supported by the distribution of artifacts. If you'd read the article she referenced, you'd understand the theories she's working from."
Bryce looks taken aback, and Savannah glances at me. I’m worried at first that she’ll be upset I spoke before she could, but instead, she looks grateful. "Thank you," she says quietly, after Bryce has moved on to another topic.
"He's an idiot," I say, just as quietly. "Your analysis was sound."
She smiles, and that warmth spreads through my chest again—that unfamiliar, terrifying warmth.
The next day, instead of following Savannah around, I finally make time to meet up with Luca.
He’s been trying to get a private meeting with me for a while now, but I’ve been too wrapped up, and I know that’s a mistake.
So I meet him for lunch at a small Italian place in Little Italy that his family has owned for three generations.
We're in a private room in the back, away from other diners, and Luca is watching me with an expression that means he's about to say something I won't like.
Luca Moretti has been my best friend since we were eight years old, when his father started working for mine.
He's two years older than me, and every bit as terrifying as I can be when necessary, despite his outwardly sophisticated appearance. For years now, he’s not only been my best friend, he’s also my second-in-command.
He's also the only person besides Giulia whom I trust completely.
Which is why I know he's going to be a problem before he even opens his mouth.
"So," he says, twirling pasta on his fork. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"You'll have to be more specific."
"The girl. Savannah Beauregard." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "You've been obsessed with her for what… weeks now? Rearranged your entire schedule, enrolled in archaeology courses, spending every free moment either with her or watching her."
"I'm not watching her."
"Romeo." His voice is flat. "I've known you since we were kids. I know when you're lying."
I set down my fork. "What's your point?"
"My point is that this is dangerous. She's engaged to Thaddeus Whitmore. Her family has history with yours—bad history. And you're acting like a lovesick teenager instead of the calculating bastard I know you are."
"I'm not lovesick."
"Then what are you?"
I don't have an answer for that. I don't know what I am. I only know that when I'm near Savannah, I feel things I've never felt before. Real things. Not the performed emotions I've spent my life perfecting, but genuine feelings that I can't control. It terrifies me. And I can't stop.
"She's different," I say finally.
Luca’s mouth purses. "Different how?"
"She makes me feel things."
Luca stares at me for a long moment. "That's what I'm afraid of. Romeo, you don't feel things. I’ve known you your whole life. You’re a fucking terrifying sociopath, and for this life, it works. But this girl—she's getting under your skin, and that makes you vulnerable."
"I can handle it."
"Can you?" He leans forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're losing control of yourself.
You're taking risks you wouldn't normally take. And for what? A girl who's engaged to someone else? A girl whose family hates yours?" He shakes his head. “You don’t just start feeling things overnight, Romeo. Not someone like you. I don’t know what this is, but it’s not real.”
It is. I know it is, but I also know continuing to protest isn’t going to make this sound any better. I sit back, ignoring the lasagna in front of me. "I don't care about the family history."
"Maybe you should. Dante is already suspicious. He knows something's off with you. And if he finds out you're pursuing a Beauregard—"
I feel a flash of relief that Luca hasn’t said anything to my father. I hadn’t really thought he would—he’s loyal to me above all else—but the worry was there. "He won't find out."
"He will. He always does." Luca sits back, studying me. "What's your endgame here? You seduce her, break up her engagement, and then what? You think her family is going to accept you? You think your father is going to be okay with you bringing a Beauregard into the family?"
"I don't care what they think."
"That's the problem. You should care. This isn't just about you and her. This is about two families with a lot of bad blood between them. This is about business relationships and alliances and all the complicated shit that comes with who we are. Your father probably has ideas about whom he’d like you to marry before you’re thirty. I guarantee it isn’t a fucking Beauregard. "
I know he's right. Logically, I know every word he's saying is true. This obsession with Savannah is dangerous. It's reckless. It's everything I've spent my life not getting caught up in because I’ve never felt a connection to anyone before.
But I don't care.
"I'm not stopping.” I nearly cross my arms over my chest, but manage to stop myself.
Luca sighs. "I didn't think you would. But I had to try." He picks up his fork again. "Just be careful. And when this blows up in your face—and it will—don't say I didn't warn you."
We finish lunch in relative silence, and when we part ways outside the restaurant, Luca grips my shoulder. "I hope she's worth it."
So do I.
—
The next night, against my own better judgment, I follow her back to the dorms.
I figured out which side her room was on, and I walk around the building, looking up until I see the light come on. I told myself as I followed her back from the library that I just wanted to make sure she got home safe; that this was about protecting her, not my growing obsession with her.
The coiling, aching need in my gut tells me that I’m lying to myself.
I see her silhouette moving through the space. She drops her bag by the door, kicks off her shoes, and moves toward what I know is her bedroom.
I should leave. I should go home.
Instead, I stay. I watch her silhouette as she pulls off her jacket, then moves to the window and looks out over the street.
I step deeper into the shadows, but I don't think she can see me.
The streetlights create a glare on the glass, and I'm far enough back that I'm just another shadow in the darkness.
She stands there for a long moment, and I wonder what she's thinking.
Is she thinking about Whitmore? About her father's expectations? About the life she's supposed to want?
Is she thinking about me?
She moves away from the window, and I see her silhouette reach for the hem of her shirt. She's going to undress. She's going to strip down to nothing, and I could stay here and watch, and she would never know. The thought sends heat through my body, the arousal sharp and immediate.
But this time, I don't stay.
I turn and walk away, heading toward where my driver is waiting with the town car, because I want to see her naked.
I want it with an intensity that's almost painful.
But I want to see it in person for the first time.
I want to be the one undressing her, my hands on her skin, her eyes on mine.
I want her to know it's me, the first time she’s bare in front of me.
Not hiding, watching her from a distance, as if she’s not mine to look at.
The town car is parked two blocks away. Marco—my driver for the past five years—opens the door as I approach.
"Home, Mr. Ciresa?"
I nod. "Yes."
I slide into the back seat, and Marco closes the door behind me.
The memory of Savannah at her window, her fingers at the hem of her shirt, feels like an itch beneath my skin.
My cock is throbbing, every muscle in my body wound tight.
I’ve resisted the urge thus far, but a man can only resist so much.
All of my remaining self-control was used up on walking away from watching her at the window.
The privacy divider is down, and I reach forward and press the button to raise it.
"Sir?" Marco glances back at me in the rearview mirror.
"I need privacy. Don't lower the divider until we reach the house."
"Understood."
The divider slides up, and I'm alone in the back of the car. All I can think about is Savannah. Her silhouette in the window. The curve of her body. I’ve never been so hard in my life.
I’ve had women utterly on display for me, spread out like feasts, mine to have in any way I please, and I’ve never felt arousal like this.
I can’t wait until we get home. I need relief now.
I reach for my zipper with a shaking hand, dragging it down as I slide my fingers in and slip my cock free. A hiss escapes through my teeth as I feel the pleasure of skin on skin, and I wrap my hand around my length, tilting my head back against the leather seat.
I don’t care that I’m in the car, that Marco is on the other side of that divider. I need to come. I’ve never needed it so badly.
Savannah is the only thing in my head as I start to stroke.
The line of her leg as she sat under that tree, the graceful arch of her throat, the curve of her waist and hips and breasts in every dress I’ve ever seen her in.
I picture her laid out under me, fabric giving way under my hands, every inch of pale skin revealed like a treasure as I undress her.
I shudder when my palm slides over my leaking tip, my hips arching up as I thrust into my fist when I wrap it around myself again. I’m not going to last long. I’ve been on the edge for days, fighting my basest needs, and now that I’ve given in, the onrush of pleasure is dizzying.
I picture her lips, parted on a moan. Her back, arched as I make her come. The sweet, perfect pink folds between her thighs, glistening for me as I run my tongue over her and taste her for the first time…
I don’t even get as far in my fantasy as fucking her before I feel myself tip over the edge.
My balls tighten, heat curling up my spine, and I feel my cock start to throb just in time to grab a handful of tissues and thrust my tip into my palm.
I clench my teeth against a groan as I spurt, shudders of pleasure rippling through my body as I empty myself into my hand and picture Savannah crying out my name.
When I come down from the high, I still feel wound tight. But I can think a little more clearly.
All the same, she’s still the only thing on my mind.