CHAPTER 23
Edoardo
Caroline moans into my mouth, the sound breaking apart as pleasure overtakes her.
Her body arches hard, the moans turn raw, each breath a surrender.
I slip an arm around her, steadying her as I pull her closer, driving into her from behind with that familiar and feral hunger that has always been there whenever we’re skin to skin burning for each other.
She clutches my arm, fingers biting down as if she needs the leverage to stay upright, her voice breaking when she screams my name.
Again. And again.
I’m right there with her, balanced on the edge, pulse roaring in my ears.
Caroline’s nails dig into my forearms as I sink fully into her, every inch claimed, every boundary erased.
One more thrust, just one, and she tightens around me, fierce and helpless all at once, pulling me over the edge with her.
I shudder, emptying myself inside her, and we collapse together onto the bed, breathless and suspended in that quiet after the storm.
“Oh God… you… so good.” Her voice is barely there now, a soft, reverent sound against my skin.
When our breathing finally slows, I roll onto my side and draw her onto my chest. She fits there easily, like she’s done it a thousand times.
“You are a monster in bed,” she says between breaths, half-laughing. “It’s been four months and you’re still fucking me like it’s the first week.”
She reaches for her water bottle, takes a sip, then lifts it to my mouth. I drink, still watching her.
“You don’t want me to?” I ask, handing it back.
She slips out of bed and pads toward the door, bare and unapologetic. She opens it just enough to lean out and order coffee and breakfast in bed, then glances back at me with a knowing, dangerous smile.
“Did I complain?”
“No,” I call after her, louder now, “but if you want me to dial it back or tone down the intensity, you just have to say the word.” I pause, then add, softer but no less certain, “You’re a monster in bed yourself, Cara.”
We’re at her house in San Francisco. I’ve decided to explore the art scenes on both coasts, traveling with Caroline from London to New York, and then here. Yes, I’m here for business but a big part is also following her, really, though neither of us has said that out loud.
“And you like that, don’t you?” she tosses back, already heading for the bathroom.
“I’ll tell you when you’re back in bed,” I say, winking.
A knock on the door. Caroline, having pulled a bathrobe on, tells the house staff to leave breakfast at the door.
“Let me help with the breakfast and coffee.” I push myself up on my elbows, eyes looking for my clothes that must be scattering somewhere on the floor.
“No worries.” Caroline opens the door and pulls in a wheeled table toward the seating area. It smells eggs, bacon, pastries, and coffee.
I pull up my briefs and stride over to pour coffee for both of us. I sit down and pull her onto my lap.
“We’ll do breakfast,” she says over a sip of coffee, “then I need to go into my office for a few hours. You’re scouting the area with Lisa, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, “She landed last night, but I only see here during the day. Dinner later?”
She pauses. “You sure you want to eat with my parents?”
“Up to you.” I say easily. “It’s just a dinner and I don’t mind at all. I just don’t want to have dinner with Adam without you, or with a random San Francisco hippie.”
She laughs and it warms me more than I care to admit. Within my circle, I told Clive and Xander. Caroline’s friends all know about us. Of course, none of us needed to tell Stefano and Gigi. They knew even before we were together.
We dodged Valentine’s Day because it felt too soon then. But now it’s March. Almost four months, and we’ve seen each other nearly every week since. Every night ends with me buried inside her. Every morning begins with her beside me. Somewhere along the way, something shifted.
Our sex is explosive - volcanic, uncontrollable, wildfire bright and unquenchable. But beneath the heat, there’s something else now. Something slower, heavier, and very real.
Caroline’s felt it too. I know she has. She’s just too stubborn or too afraid to name it.
I tread carefully. She already carries too much: a business bleeding from the inside, a board watching her every move, her parents’ expectations and pressure, a best friend still hurting.
And whatever else happened to her, whatever made her guard her heart this fiercely. I don’t know yet. But I will.
For now, I let her set the pace.
“Okay.” She says softly and reaches for a croissant. She takes a bite and gives me one.
I shake my head, “I only take coffee this early.”
I wait until she finishes her croissant, until she takes another unhurried sip of coffee, watching the way her mouth closes around the rim of the cup before I speak.
“So,” I say casually, though my thumb is already tracing slow, idle circles on her thigh, “we’re going to Lake Como for Stefano’s proposal the week after. Should we take two extra days and turn it into a long weekend in Tuscany?”
“Good idea.” She nods, eyes bright.
“Are you part of the planning? Or is it mostly Celina?”
“Mostly Celina. I only helped here and there.” Caroline pauses, her expression shifting. “I’m still worried about Connor. How both of them will react, being in the same place for the first time in months.”
“Don’t worry too much.” I smooth my hand over the faint crease between her brows. “They know this is coming. They’ll prepare themselves, Cara.”
She exhales and leans into me, her head fitting perfectly into the hollow of my neck. “You’re right. I suppose.”
“You spent so much time taking care of Connor,” I murmur.
“He’s taken care of me too,” she says softly.
“What kind of things has Connor helped you through?” I ask, gentle but curious.
She stiffens just a fraction and then schools herself. “We’ve been through a lot together,” she says simply.
I don’t push. Not now. My hands already have other ideas, sliding under the loose bathrobe, finding warm, bare skin. I pull her closer.
“Let me take care of you now,” I murmur against her ear, my lips trailing from the shell of it down the line of her neck, across her throat.
A soft, involuntary sound slips from her.
“Ah,” I say quietly, wickedly. “You like tenderness in the morning.”
She’s going into the office later but no early meetings scheduled. I have time. I don’t need to rush. One round doesn’t have to be the only one.
“Bathtub,” she murmurs, her tongue flicking the sensitive spot just below my ear.
“You had it ready?”
“Yes. For myself earlier.”
Her robe is already untied, falling open to bare her completely. My fingers flick her nipple - hard, pink, oversensitive - and she moans, her head tipping back. It’s jutting, begging for my mouth. Not yet.
I close my hand around her breast instead, tracing the slope slowly, deliberately, watching her reaction. She arches into my touch, her tongue sliding hot and wet into my ear.
I suck at her neck, gentle at first, then harder, and lift her easily, guiding her leg over my hips until she straddles me. My hands push the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall away.
She’s naked now. Entirely. A feast. A beautiful, magnificent feast.
“Do you want to ride me first?” I ask, my gaze devouring her. “Then I take you in the tub?”
Her answer is a low, broken moan as she pulls off my briefs and lowers herself onto me.
We stopped using condoms a week ago - desperation, trust, hunger all tangled together. Clean. Exclusive. She’s on the pill. And the difference… Christ. The heat. The stretch. The way she takes me fully, nothing between us, every pulse felt, every inch claimed. Heaven.
I smile as she pushes me back onto the couch. She leans down until we’re chest to chest, skin slick with heat, and kisses my ear. Then she moves to my neck, licking slowly and deliberately - the signal that she’s ready.
I lift my hips, adjust the angle. Her palms press into my chest as she lowers herself onto me inch by delicious inch, her eyes locking on mine, wicked and knowing. I let her take all of me before she starts to move.
Slow at first. Torturous. Then faster. Faster and harder.
Her gasps spill out uncontrolled as her hands tangle in my hair and she rides me hard, reckless, filthy. My hands grip her waist, fingers digging in as I stand, lifting her easily, carrying us toward the bathroom.
The tub is filled, steam curling upward, the scent of rose and wood heavy in the air.
She laughs softly against my mouth. “You’re going to smell like rose and wood all day.”
“Good.” I sink us into the water, heat closing around us. “And you’ll smell like me.”
I turn us effortlessly, her back against me, her hands braced on the edge of the tub. I slide back inside her from behind and hit something that makes her cry out.
I pull out. Then drive back in. Hard. Fast.
Her moans get louder, broken, raw. I set a relentless rhythm, teeth grazing her earlobe.
“Tell me,” I growl, thrusting deep, “how long do you want this to last?”
“Oh God…”
“Tell me,” I order, pounding into her. Her back arches, meeting every thrust, desperate for more.
“I’m close,” she gasps, grinding back, taking me even deeper.
The extra inch makes me hiss. I press her forward slightly, force her to take all of me, thrusting harder, faster, ruthless. Her muscles clench. Her thighs lock.
“So tight,” I growl, losing control. “God, you feel so fucking good.”
The sounds between us turn filthy - broken words, ragged breaths, water sloshing with each brutal movement. I hike her higher and slam into her again.
She screams my name, loud and unrestrained, head thrown back, knuckles white on the tub as she takes everything I give her.
I don’t hold back. I give her all of it.
She arches perfectly, and I thrust deep, blood roaring in my ears, feeling her shatter beneath me.
“Please,” she begs.
“Come, Cara,” I hiss, driving into her again and again.
She breaks apart, body locking, pleasure ripping through her as I chase my own release, tumbling over the edge with her after three more savage thrusts.
We’re nothing but naked, sweaty flesh, wrecked and spent, water lapping around us.
Every moment with her is madness. And I never stop wanting more.
I am in so much trouble.