Amanda
Holy shit.
Alessio is here. Now. In my room.
And he’s kissing the hell out of me.
In about six seconds, I’m either going to jump him—or I’m going to beg him to jump me.
Honestly, it could go either way.
Look, it’s been a ridiculously long dry spell.
After Alessio left, I tried. I really did.
I went on a couple dates.
Nice men. Respectful men.
One even leaned in to kiss me goodnight.
And I panicked.
Not outwardly, not dramatically. But inside, something in me shut down.
Because the truth is, I couldn’t let anyone touch me like that after him.
Call me stupid.
Call me old-fashioned.
Call me emotionally damaged.
Whatever.
But intimacy has never been casual for me.
I can’t share my body with someone if my heart isn’t there too.
And after Alessio ripped that heart right out of my chest three years ago, letting anyone get close again felt—and still feels—impossible.
Until now.
Because when he kisses me like this—God.
Every nerve in my body wakes up.
His mouth is warm and demanding, his hands firm on my waist as he pulls me closer. My fingers curl into the lapels of his suit jacket, dragging him nearer like I’m afraid he might disappear again.
And when he starts shrugging out of the jacket—I help him.
The heavy fabric slides to the floor.
Then his tie.
Then the buttons of his shirt.
My hands are shaking, but I don’t stop.
His chest is warm beneath my palms, solid muscle under smooth skin, and the familiar scent of him—clean soap and something darker—hits me like a memory I’ve been starving for.
“Where’s the zipper, Rusty?” he murmurs against my ear.
My breath catches.
“Here—on the side,” I whisper, turning slightly so he can reach it.
His fingers find the hidden zipper of my dress and draw it slowly downward.
The soft whisper of fabric loosening makes my pulse race.
The gown slides from my shoulders, pooling around my feet like pale green silk water.
Alessio freezes for a moment, staring.
The look in his eyes makes heat rush through my entire body.
“Jesus, look at you. All curves and peaches and cream skin,” he breathes.
And then he pulls me into his arms again, frantic this time.
And I am so here for it.
He growls as he picks me up with one arm around my waist, and the other between my legs.
I’m wearing a pair of low riding panties and no bra, and his mouth finds my breasts without error.
I clutch at his hair while he kisses and suckles me.
God, it’s so good.
I rock against him, and honestly, I know I’m going to explode the second he touches me there. And I can’t wait.
Neither can he because he’s tearing out of his pants and sliding his boxers off.
“Fuck, I don’t have a condom,” he growls. “I have no right to ask for this, but I haven’t been with anyone since you, Rusty. I fucking swear it.”
Our eyes meet, and I know he’s telling the truth. Because neither have I.
“Me either. And I-I still have the IUD,” I whisper.
“Yeah? You’ll let me fuck you bare?”
I nod.
“Christ, you’re so fucking perfect,” he groans and reaches between my legs to find me soaked.
“Let’s take these off,” he says and peels my panties off.
Then he’s moving on top of me, positioning his hard cock at my dripping entrance before he pushes in—just the tip.
“Look at me, Rusty,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “I want you to watch how good you take me.”
As if I could look anywhere else.
I’m already lost in him—the heat of his body, the weight of him between my thighs, the way his eyes darken when he realizes exactly how much I want this.
When he finally moves forward, the sensation steals the breath right out of my lungs.
“Oh—”
The stretch is slow, deliberate, every inch of him claiming space inside me until I’m gripping his shoulders, my fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
My nails drag down his skin as I gasp, clinging to him while he settles fully against me.
“Easy,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I’ve got you.”
Then he shifts, lowering his weight just enough to make me open for him, his hands sliding beneath my hips as he encourages my legs wider around his waist.
The intimacy of it—of him guiding me, holding me, watching my face like it matters more than anything—makes warmth bloom deep in my chest.
“This changes everything,” he says softly.
I nod because I know.
There’s no pretending after this.
No going back to what we were before tonight.
Then he kisses me again—deep and certain—and finally begins to move.
Slow at first. Careful.
Like he’s memorizing the way we fit together all over again.
Our combined breathing is labored.
Our bodies are moving together like partners in a dance without needing any music.
He knows what I need, and I swear my body responds in kind.
“Fuck, Rusty, your pussy feels so good. God, I’ve missed you,” he confesses and I think my body is on fire.
I arch into him.
Needing more. Needing Less.
“You like that? Like hearing me tell you how much I need you. How much I want you. Fuck, you gonna come for me?” Less groans and my pussy quivers, tightening around his welcomed invasion.
He’s got me so fired up.
No one can make me feel like he does.
The naughty things he whispers.
The way his body fits mine.
It’s perfect. Kismet. Fate.
“That’s right. And I’m the only man who can make you feel this good. Now do it. Come for me, Rusty,” he commands, pumping his hips and grinding into me.
I stare into his onyx gaze, gripping onto his shoulders—and then it happens.
“Less!” I shout as my orgasm peaks. But he doesn’t slow or stop—not Less.
He starts to pound into me. And the pressure, the pace—all of it just rockets through my veins until every cell in my body feels it—feels him.
And then one becomes two.
Because with Less, you always get more.
And as he loses himself to the pleasure, I watch him shamelessly.
And when he collapses on top of me, I hold him through it.
And I kiss him everywhere I can.
A moment or a year later—who can tell at a time like this—Alessio lifts his head, and he cradles my face between his hands.
Then he kisses me softly.
And the world outside the room just fades away.
He doesn’t stop. And I don’t ask him to.
The rest of the night dissolves into warmth and tangled sheets, quiet laughter, and soft apologies neither of us quite knows how to finish.
We fall asleep sometime near dawn tangled together beneath the covers, his arm heavy around my waist like it belongs there.
For the first time in years—I sleep peacefully.
Morning comes far too soon.
A knock at the door pulls me from sleep.
I groan softly and bury my face in Alessio’s shoulder.
“Don’t answer it,” I mumble.
He chuckles against my hair.
“Wish I could.”
A few minutes later he returns with a tray balanced in one hand.
Breakfast.
Coffee.
Fresh fruit.
Croissants.
The kind of fancy room service you only get in houses owned by billionaires.
“Carter must’ve sent it up,” he says.
“Probably part of the performance package.”
I sit up in bed, wrapping the sheet around myself.
“Food smells amazing.”
But before either of us touches it, Alessio notices something tucked beneath the silver lid of the tray.
An envelope.
Plain.
White.
No name.
His entire posture changes.
“Don’t touch anything,” he says sharply and places the tray on the dresser.
My stomach drops.
“What is it?”
He opens the envelope carefully.
Reads.
And every ounce of warmth drains from his face.
“What?” I demand.
His jaw tightens.
He turns the paper toward me.
The message is printed in blocky black letters.
You should have died last night.
Next time we won’t miss.
My blood runs cold.
For half a second, the room feels too small to breathe in.
Alessio folds the paper slowly.
Then his voice turns into something I’ve never heard before.
Cold.
Final.
“We’re leaving.”
“What?”
“Right. Now.”
“But the luncheon performance—”
“You’re not finishing the show.”
I stare at him.
“Alessio—”
“No.”
The word cracks through the room like a gunshot.
He steps closer, gripping my shoulders gently but firmly.
“I fucked up,” he says quietly. “Letting you stay here last night. Now that these threats are escalating? Staying isn’t an option.”
His dark eyes lock onto mine.
“But I have a contract—”
“I’ll return Carter’s money.”
His voice is calm.
Unshakable.
“I’ll deal with his lawyers, his assistants, whoever he wants to throw at me. I don’t give a fuck.”
He cups my face in his hands.
“But Less—your career! You can’t do this!”
“I can, and I am. Now get dressed.”
“But w-what if you change your mind?”
“About what? About you?”
He cups my cheeks, dropping a firm kiss on my lips.
“I’m not changing my mind. Never, Rusty. Your safety is everything.”
The intensity in his gaze steals the breath from my lungs.
“Your serious aren’t you?” I whisper, afraid to break the spell.
“Yeah, I’m serious. I lost you once,” he says softly. “I’m not risking it again.”
My heart hammers in my chest.
“So, you’re taking me? Back to New York?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
He grabs his jacket and phone.
“Ten minutes.”
Then he looks back at me.
“Pack what you need.”
“And when we get there?”
Alessio stops what he’s doing, narrows his eyes, and walks right up to me, grabbing the back of my neck in a firm, yet gentle grip.
“When we get back I’m not letting you out of my sight. I told you last night, this changes everything.”
“But how? H-how does it change?” I ask.
“You’re mine, Rusty. Now put something on and keep that ass by my side until I say otherwise. Got it?”
The protective edge in his voice sends a strange warmth through my fear.
Because this time—Alessio Figueroa isn’t walking away.
He’s taking me with him.
“I got it,” I grin, and then I hustle.