Chapter 18 #2
It wasn’t just the kiss.
It was the fact that I liked it—every stolen, breathless second of it. My wolf liked it too. She stirred even now, clinging to the warmth of his touch, aching for more.
And by more, I didn’t mean another kiss—I meant the whole damn thing. Him. Us. Again.
That’s what terrified me.
I didn’t trust myself around him. I needed walls—thicker, higher, unscalable walls.
Luca stood.
“Let’s go, Leila. I’ll drive you.”
I looked up, already bristling. “I can get there on my own perfectly fine, thank you.”
“I don’t have the patience for that. My weekend has already been ruined by a certain someone.”
My eyes narrowed. “I’ll take an Uber.”
He exhaled slowly, that deep, infuriating sigh that said I’m done playing games. “Leila, get in the car. Don’t make me ask again.”
Then he turned and walked off, just like that. No waiting for permission. Straight toward the driveway, like the decision had already been made.
I stared after him, then yanked out my phone and opened the Uber app, more to prove a point to myself than anything else. The nearest driver was fifteen minutes away. And that was without the ten-minute walk to the Moreau estate’s front gate. Twenty-five minutes total.
Damn it. He was right.
And leaving separately would only raise eyebrows.
With a sigh, I shoved my tablet and notes into my bag, packed up my pride, and headed to the driveway.
By the time I got there, Luca had already started the car. I climbed in.
The ride moved on in silence, but my mind wasn’t nearly as quiet. Being five centimeters away from him was its own kind of torture. Heat radiated off his body like an open flame, and I was the foolish moth leaning closer.
He had his sleeves rolled up. One hand gripped the steering wheel, forearm flexed, a Rolex glinting under the dashboard light like it had no business being that sexy. And I? I was a mess.
I imagined those arms cupping my face, his mouth claiming mine, slow and deep like he had all the time in the world.
I imagined those hands—those infuriatingly skilled hands—on my breasts, my ass, between my thighs, teasing until I broke, until the only sound in the room was me moaning his name like a forgotten prayer.
And then—
I looked up.
Luca glanced at me, and his gaze darkened—like he could see every filthy thought I’d just played out in my head.
My cheeks caught fire. I snapped my gaze to the window, feeling the burn crawl down my neck. Embarrassment. Lust. Shame. All of it.
“Who do you have dinner plans with?” Luca’s voice cut through the silence.
His voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even a question. It was a command—low, sharp, laced with unmistakable indignation.
I turned to him, heat rising in my chest. “That’s none of your business.”
His hand tightened on the wheel. “It’s exactly my business. Because barely forty hours ago, you were kissing me,” he said, his jaw tight. “Kissing me like you meant it. Like you wanted it. And now you want to dress up and go out to dinner and pretend nothing happened between us?”
“You don’t get to do this.”
“The hell I don’t,” he snapped.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Luca.”
He shot me a look, his eyes burning with anger. “What, so you can just pretend like it didn’t happen? Like none of it meant anything?”
I turned back to the window, my throat tight. “Maybe you should try doing the same.”
He pulled up in front of the gallery, and I didn’t wait. I jumped out—yes, jumped—like the car had caught fire.
Inside the gallery’s reception area, I approached the front desk.
“Good evening, Mr. Frank. My name is Leila Carter. I called earlier regarding the acquisition of a few pieces for Elena Moreau’s wedding.”
The man’s face lit with recognition. “Ah, Ms. Carter. Of course.” He reached out to shake my hand. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Me neither,” I muttered under my breath as I took his hand.
“This is my…” I glanced at Luca beside me, and when I said the next words—deliberately—I caught the flicker of something dark flash across his face. “My client, Luca Vaughn. He’s the groom.” The words hit like shards in my throat, and I hated how true they were. The groom.
Mr. Frank turned to Luca and extended his hand. “Mr. Vaughn. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding.”
Luca didn’t even try to hide it. He let the man’s hand hang for an awkward second—his eyes slicing into me like he was still waiting for an answer to the question he asked in the car —before finally offering a brief, clipped handshake.
“I’ve selected our finest collection as requested. Please, follow me.”
He led us past the polished marble floors and tall glass partitions into the heart of the gallery, where soft overhead lights bathed each piece in a quiet, reverent glow. The space smelled faintly of wood and paint.
“How many pieces are you looking to acquire?” Mr. Frank asked.
“Six,” I answered.
He nodded. “You can make your selection from these. But if you have any specifics in mind, do let me know. Would you like me to walk you through each one?”
“That would be—”
“No,” Luca cut in, his voice sharp and final. “We can take it from here. Thank you.”
Mr. Frank blinked but smiled politely. “Very well. I’ll be out front if you need anything.”
Luca watched Mr. Frank walk down the hallway, and the moment the man vanished from sight, his eyes cut to me—hot, unreadable, dangerous. A storm swirled there. Not just anger. Fury. Hunger. And something else I didn’t dare name.
“We should look through the pieces…” I said, trying to sound professional, trying to act like my spine hadn’t just dissolved. “Since Elena said she trusts your judgement, you should make the final—”
I made the mistake of looking up. Our eyes locked, and I lost the ability to form words. That something I didn’t want to name… it was desire. Raw. Unfiltered. Possessive. He looked at me like he had the night he made love to me for the first time—like I was his, like I had always been.
“Luca…” His name slipped out in a whisper.
He stepped toward me, slow and controlled. “You haven’t replied to my question, Leila?” His voice was low, rough.
I took a step back. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Luca. What happened was a mis—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” His voice cut through the air—low, seething.
He closed the gap with another step. “You don’t get to file it under mistake.
You don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen.
” I could feel the heat radiating off him.
“I won’t let you. Not when I’m losing sleep over you.
Losing my goddamn mind. Not when I tasted the desperation in your lips. ”
I didn’t even realize I’d been backing up until my spine hit the wall. He kept coming, close now, too close, his scent wrapping around me.
“Luca—someone could walk—” I tried to speak, tried to pull the veil of professionalism over whatever this was—but I didn’t get far.
“Let them,” he said, his body caging me in. He loomed, tall and broad, a wall of tension and heat. His shoulders framed me, his presence swallowed mine whole. “Not since last night. I close my eyes and all I see is you—your lips, the way you trembled when I touched you.”
My knees wobbled. I squeezed my thighs together, fighting the ache building between them. My body refused to listen to my mind. It wanted him. My wolf wanted her Mate.
His gaze dipped lower. “This dress…” His voice was nearly a growl.
His eyes traveled down, across my chest, to the subtle curve of my waist. It was a navy slip dress—simple, but criminally effective.
Thin straps. Low back. I told myself I wore it because it was hot out.
Because I had dinner plans. Because it was already hanging at the front of my closet.
But that was a lie.
I wore it because I knew he’d be at that meeting. Because I loved the way he looked at me Saturday night when he kissed me—and I wanted him to look at me like that again. Like he was barely in control. Like he was doing right now.
He looked like he wanted to tear the dress off with his teeth. “You wore it on purpose, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t even know you’d be at this meeting,” I said, trying to sound firm. I failed.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Bullshit, Leila.”
I looked away, but his hand came up, firm on my chin, turning my face back to his.
“Tell me you haven’t thought about it. The kiss. Me.” His thumb dragged across my bottom lip. “Tell me you haven’t imagined what more would feel like.”
“Luca…” My voice cracked. Because I had. God help me, I had.
“Tell me,” he breathed. “Because your mouth lies, but your eyes? Your body?” He leaned in, nose brushing mine. “They’re begging me to finish what we started.”
My heart thudded, frantic, unsteady. I couldn’t breathe.
“It doesn’t matter,” I forced out. “What I feel doesn’t matter. You’re getting married, Luca. Why do I always have to be the one reminding you of that?”
“Because I can’t remind myself,” he said hoarsely. “Because when I’m around you, nothing else exists. Not her. Not the wedding. Not logic. Just you and your damn betrayal.”
His hand curled around the back of my neck, grounding me. My eyes fluttered closed, just for a second—and in that second, I wished things weren’t complicated. That I was planning our own wedding instead. That the past hadn’t broken us.
Then my phone buzzed. The sound sliced through the haze, snapping me back to brutal reality.
“Luca, please,” I said, placing my hand on his chest. “Let me go.” I shoved gently, and in that sliver of space, I slipped past him, clutching my chest as if it could calm my pounding heart. I checked the phone. A text from Victor. I made a mental note to text him back, to reschedule dinner.
But Luca must have seen the screen. Because that voice that had been hoarse and full of longing just seconds ago, now roared like thunder.
“Your dinner plans were with my brother?!”
I turned sharply. He was glaring at my phone, fists clenched, his face contorted with fury.
“You’re going out with Victor?” he bit out. “Fucking Victor?”
I shoved the phone into my bag. “This was a mistake, Luca. We can’t keep doing this. We have to stay away from each other.” I forced my spine straight, pretending my heart wasn’t shattering as I said those words. “What happened at the observatory…it can’t happen again. It won’t.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond, couldn’t afford to.
“Goodnight, Luca,” I said, and walked away fast. Because if he stopped me again, if he so much as said my name the way only he could, I wasn’t sure I’d walk away.
My thoughts drifted to my father’s words in his letter. If anyone ever offers you love—real love—with presence, patience, and kindness, don’t turn away.
I’d only ever felt that with one man: Luca. And God, I didn’t know how much longer I could keep lying to myself, pretending I didn’t want him. But wanting him was one thing. Letting myself fall all over again?
I wasn’t sure I could risk that kind of love—just to be broken by it.