70 | A craving I can't ignore
The night is heavy, cloaking the bedroom in a stillness that presses against my skin.
I wake with a start, my heart thudding for no reason I can name, the remnants of a dream slipping away like smoke.
Luciano's beside me, his arm slung across my waist, his breath warm and steady against my neck.
The weight of him grounds me, but there's a restless hum in my veins, a craving I can't ignore.
I need a snack, something to quiet the gnawing inside me, not just in my stomach but deeper, where my thoughts churn.
Careful not to wake him, I slide out from under his arm, my bare feet brushing the cool floor as I tiptoe toward the door.
His face is soft in sleep, the hard lines of the mafia don smoothed away, and I pause for a second by the door, my chest tightening with something I'm still too scared to name.
I leave the bedroom, and the mansion is a labyrinth of shadows as I make my way downstairs, the grand staircase silent under my steps, the chandeliers dimmed.
The kitchen looms ahead, its stainless steel and marble a stark contrast to the warmth of the beach we shared today, to the memory of Luciano's hand in mine, his smile a rare gift.
I open the fridge, the cold light spilling out, and rummage through shelves of leftovers, jars, and bottles, my fingers brushing nothing that feels right.
No snacks, no quick fix for the hunger that's more than physical, more than I can explain.
I sigh, closing the door with a soft thud, and turn only to freeze.
Luciano's there, leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed, his presence filling the room like a storm waiting to break.
He's wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the waistband riding just below the sharp cut of his hips, and the sight of him steals my breath.
His muscles are taut, sculpted in the moonlight streaming through the window, every line of his chest and arms a testament to the strength he wields so effortlessly. Tattoos curl across his skin, dark, intricate patterns that trace his biceps, a story of violence and loyalty etched into him.
His dark hair is tousled, falling into his eyes, and those eyes, God, those eyes, are locked on me, smoldering with an intensity that makes my pulse race, a mix of hunger and something darker, something that pulls me in and terrifies me all at once.
"Didn't mean to wake you," I say, my voice softer than I intend, caught off guard by how he looks, dangerous, beautiful, like a predator who's chosen me as his prey.
"You didn't," he says, his voice low, rough with sleep, and it rolls over me like a caress, raising goosebumps on my arms.
He pushes off the doorframe, stepping closer, and I feel the air shift, thicken, like the world's narrowing to just us. "Couldn't sleep without you there."
My heart skips, and I lean back against the counter, my hands gripping the edge for balance, because he's too close now. If he takes another step, he could kiss me.
The moonlight carves shadows across his tattoos, highlighting the scars that mingle with them, and I want to trace them, to know every story, every pain he's carried.
But I'm scared, scared of how much I want him, how much I'm starting to need him, this man who's both my savior and my storm.
"I was just... looking for a snack," I say, glancing at the fridge, trying to anchor myself in something normal, but my voice wavers, betraying me.
He stops a foot away, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint cedar that clings to his skin.
His arms are still crossed, his biceps flexing, and I can't help it, my eyes dip to the ink curling over his chest, to the way his sweatpants hang, tempting me to look lower.
I snap my gaze back to his face, my cheeks burning, and he smirks, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that makes my stomach flip.
"Nothing good in there?" he asks, but it's not about the fridge or the snacks, not really. His eyes are saying something else, something that makes my breath hitch.
"No," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, and I'm not sure if I'm talking about snacks or the way he's unraveling me, piece by piece. "I... I don't know what I want."
He steps closer, erasing the distance, and now he's right there, towering over me, his bare chest inches from mine. One hand uncrosses, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek.
"I think you do," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me, igniting a fire I've tried to keep banked. "You're just scared to say it."
My heart's pounding, a wild drum, and I tilt my head, meeting his gaze, those dark eyes that see too much, that strip me bare without trying.
He's right, I'm scared of what it means to want him like this, to let him in when he could break me with a word, a simple touch.
"Maybe," I say, my voice steadier now, a challenge. "But what do you want, Luciano?"
His smirk fades, replaced by something raw, and he leans in, his hand sliding to my neck, his thumb resting over my pulse, counting it like he always does.
"You," he says, simple, fervent, like it's the only truth he knows. "Always you, Aurelia."
My knees weaken and I grip the counter harder, because his words, his touch, they're undoing me.
I lean into his hand, my eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat, savoring the way he feels, the way he makes me feel alive, wanted, his.
The kitchen fades, the mansion, the world, and it's just us, two broken souls tangled in a moment that's too fragile, too perfect to last.
I open my eyes, and he's still there, watching me, waiting for me, and I know I'm not going back to bed tonight.
Luciano leans in, his lips inches from my own, so close I can feel the promise of him, the taste of what we could be.
My eyes flutter close again, my heart pounding, and I'm ready, aching for it, for the kiss that's been building since he knelt for me, since he bared his heart.
His hand tightens on my jaw, guiding me, and our lips are a heartbeat apart, the air crackling with need—
A sharp clink shatters the spell, and I flinch, my eyes snapping open.
A servant stands in the doorway, a young man clutching a stack of pans, his face flushed with panic.
"S-sorry, sir, ma'am," he stammers, his voice breaking the silence like glass. "I didn't—I was just—"
Luciano pulls back, his jaw clenching, and I feel the absence of his touch like a wound.
His eyes stay on me, burning with frustration, with a want that mirrors my own, but he steps away, giving me space I don't want.
"Go," he says to the servant, his voice low, edged with a control I know he's fighting to keep. "Now."
The boy scrambles out, the pans clattering as he vanishes, and the kitchen falls quiet again, but the moment's broken, the almost-kiss a ghost lingering between us.
I'm breathing too fast, my lips tingling with what didn't happen, and I press my hands harder against the counter, trying to anchor myself.
Luciano drags a hand through his hair, his tattoos shifting as his muscles tense, and he looks at me, a question in his eyes, like he's waiting for me to decide if we chase this or let it go.
"I—" My voice cracks, and I laugh, a shaky sound that's more nerves than anything else. "That was... intense."
He steps closer, not touching, but near enough that I feel his heat, his presence pulling at me.
"Too intense?" he asks, his voice softer now.
"No," I say, honest, because I wanted it and the interruption only sharpens the longing, makes it real. "Just... bad timing."
He nods, but his eyes don't leave mine and I see the promise there, the fire still smoldering.
"We've got time," he murmurs, his voice a vow wrapped in want. "I'm not going anywhere."