Six #2
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I just gave Victor the key to my apartment and a list of things I need.”
“Good.” I set the empty bottle on the counter a little harder than necessary. “He’ll get your things quickly.”
Silence settles between us after that, awkward in a way the restaurant never was. The kitchen lights are softer here, the house too quiet around us, and suddenly, I’m aware of how late it is. How close she’s standing.
I rub a hand across the back of my neck. “I should get in the shower so I’m not late to meet my brothers.”
The words come out rougher than I intended.
“Oh.” She steps back immediately, shaking her head once like she’s correcting herself. “Right. Sorry.”
In the shower, I take myself in hand and don’t pretend it’s anything else. Water runs hot over my shoulders, steam thick in the air, but it’s nothing compared to the heat already building low in my body.
I try to keep my head clear and fail almost instantly.
Her body comes to me the way I imagine it—soft where I want it, curved under my hands, made to fit against me. My grip tightens on my cock as I picture it, the weight of her, the way she’d feel pressed up against the tile, breath catching, trying not to give anything away.
I stroke myself.
Her mouth—those lips—parting just enough to make me think about what they’d feel like on me.
I exhale, slow and rough, dragging my hand down harder, imagining the sound she’d make if I pushed her just far enough. Not breaking. Never that. Just enough to lose control for a second.
That’s what gets me.
The moment right before.
My head falls back against the tile, water hitting my face as I work myself faster now, chasing that edge while holding it just out of reach. Every image sharper, dirtier than the last—her under me, around me, giving in inch by inch until there’s nothing held back.
Control narrows until it’s all I have left.
It isn’t about release.
It’s about forcing myself to stay there, right on the edge, where wanting her feels stronger than anything else.
I let myself tumble over the cliff, and I paint the drain.
What is she doing to me?
I need to get to the club, and I can’t get there fast enough.
I pull on a suit. Tonight, doesn’t have anything special going on. We’re just heading over and taking in the sights. Well, maybe not my brother Matteo and his wife Ellory. Matteo thought they had other plans.
I loosen my tie and set it aside. I won’t need it at the club.
The San Francisco Club doesn’t require formality.
It requires clarity. I pull two condoms from the box, put them in my pocket, and study my reflection briefly before stepping away from the mirror.
I adjust my jacket, not because it needs it, but because routine steadies me.
This is about routine. About going to the club with my brothers like I said I would instead of staying in the house, thinking about a woman I hardly know.
About keeping clear lines between my life and whatever situation Chiara has dragged in with her.
It has nothing to do with the fact that her presence already changes the feel of the house or the few seconds she spent looking at my bare chest in the kitchen.
What irritates me is simpler than that. She talks as if she’s already planning her exit. And that doesn’t sit right with me.
Meeting my brothers is business. The rest is noise I’ll deal with elsewhere.
I straighten my jacket and head for the door, unwilling to linger in a part of the house that no longer feels entirely mine.
I knock once, not out of hesitation, but because I don’t walk into rooms that aren’t mine.
There’s a brief pause and then the door opens.
Chiara stands there barefoot, her hair loose now, falling over one shoulder. She’s wearing yoga pants and a sweater. Simple. Unstudied. It makes the house feel different seeing her inside it like this.
“I wanted to make sure you got what you needed,” I say.
“I did,” she replies. Her gaze moves over me slowly, taking in the suit. “Victor should be back with my things shortly, and Katie lent me this.”
“I thought that sweater looked familiar.” I hadn’t thought about how this would look.
She takes me in. “Hot date after you meet your brothers?”
There’s a steadiness to her tonight that wasn’t there earlier. At the market, she went still in a way that set off something instinctive and immediate; here, she’s composed, rested, contained in a way that suggests distance rather than safety.
“Nothing planned.” I put my hand in my pocket and I find the two condoms I slid in earlier.
She shifts her weight, and then looks at me directly. “I wanted to thank you. For earlier. And for letting me stay.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I look around. “As you can see, there’s plenty of room.”
“It’s important you know how much I appreciate your help” she says, more carefully now. “I’ll be leaving in the morning. I don’t want to overstay.”
Something tightens in my chest before I can place it.
“I hope not.”
Her expression flickers. “Hope not?”
“I was looking forward to your mother’s ragu.”
She studies me, measuring whether I mean it.
“I can make the sauce,” she says after a moment. “Then I’ll leave.”
I hold her gaze a second longer than necessary. “That’s three days.”
She nods. “That works.”
The hallway feels narrower now, not in any physical sense, but in the way the space holds us. I catch the faint scent of soap and rosemary on her skin and ignore it a fraction too late.
“Have a good night,” she says.
“You too, Chiara.”
I step back before I do something unnecessary, like reach for her just to confirm she’s still there.
The door closes quietly behind her.
I stand there a moment longer than I should and then turn and head downstairs.
The engine hums as I pull out of the drive, the house dropping away behind me as I enjoy driving one of my cars for a change.
I should be thinking about business. Dante will already be there, likely working through numbers before Matteo arrives, and tonight’s conversation won’t be optional. The San Francisco Club runs on structure, even when it looks like chaos from the outside. That structure is mine to manage.
Instead, my thoughts circle back to the house and to Chiara.
I picture her upstairs, barefoot on hardwood, moving through rooms that have always belonged only to me.
Keeping my distance tonight is the sensible choice. Routine matters. Control matters. Showing up instead of staying home reinforces both.