Chapter 21 #2
Luca’s breath hitches violently in his throat.
His dark eyes sweep over my body, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips, and stopping with agonizing, reverent gentleness at my chest. He avoids my left side completely, hyper-conscious of the Tegaderm seal and the tender tissue beneath it.
Instead, his large, calloused right palm cups my right breast—the uninjured side—with breathtaking, feather-light care.
His hand cradles the weight of my soft skin like precious glass, his thumb sweeping over the flushed peak with a worshipping, gentle stroke that sends a sweet, unexpected shiver straight down my spine.
Over my sore left breast, he doesn’t press or squeeze. He slowly raises his left hand, hovering his palm two millimeters above the clear waterproof patch, his breath warm and trembling against my skin as if making a silent, fiercely protective vow to the wound beneath.
“Luca...” I choke out, my hands flying to his broad shoulders, my nails digging into his wet, muscular back.
He dips his head, his mouth devouring mine in a bruised, possessive collision that tastes of hot rain, soap, and raw survival.
He groans into my mouth, his tongue sliding deep, claiming every corner of my breath while his thumb gently worships my right nipple, working it into a tight, agonizing peak.
His left arm wraps around my lower back, holding my hips anchored flat against his center while keeping his broad chest angled so not an ounce of his weight puts pressure on my left chest wall.
His right hand slides down from my breast, tracing the curve of my waist, dipping over my hip, and sweeping down between my thighs.
My breath hitches into a high, ragged gasp as his long, calloused fingers slide into my wet pussy.
“You’re soaking, Giada,” he rumbles against my jawline, his voice a dark, velvet rasp that vibrates straight through my core. “So hot for me...”
He cups my mound with his massive palm, his thumb finding my swollen clitoris under the streaming water. He circles my nerve endings with a firm, ruthless rhythm that sends electric, blinding shockwaves shooting straight to the base of my spine.
I tilt my head back against the slick slate wall, my dark hair plastered to the tile, my fingers tightening in his wet dark hair as my hips instinctively arch into his hand.
He works me with surgical precision. The Don who slaughters hit squads now using those same lethal hands to drive me out of my mind with worshipping tenderness.
“Luca... please,” I sob, my voice cracking in the steamy mist as the coil in my belly tightens to an agonizing, razor-thin breaking point.
He lifts me by my right leg, hooking my thigh over his hip, pressing his hard, rigid cock flush against my pussy through the spray.
His thumb speeds up against my clitoris, applying unrelenting, possessive pressure, driving me higher and higher until my vision flashes white and my chest heaves with shallow, frantic gulps.
“Look at me, cara,” he growls against my lips, his chest heaving, his fingers working me mercilessly while keeping my left side completely cradled and untouched. “Let me see you break for me.”
The tension in my lower abdomen coils so tight I can barely breathe. I am seconds, one single strike of his thumb, away from shattering completely in his hands—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
A sharp, high-pitched, piercing electronic alarm chime shatters the steam.
The noise cuts through the heavy roar of the shower spray, ringing loudly from the marble vanity outside the glass enclosure.
It’s my phone. Specifically, the strict, recurring post-biopsy ice wrap and anti-inflammatory medication chime Dr. Vance insisted I program into my device before leaving the brownstone.
The sudden, harsh noise hits the steamy enclosure like a bucket of ice water.
Luca stops instantly.
His thumb halts over my aching clitoris. His dark eyes snap open, the feral, fevered fog clearing in a fraction of a second, replaced by immediate, clinical awareness.
He looks at me, my chest heaving, my eyes wide and dazed, my body trembling on the edge of a cliff, and then looks toward the vanity where the phone continues to chime its medical alert.
He remembers where we are. He remembers a steel needle harvesting three tissue cores from my chest. He remembers Dr. Vance’s strict orders regarding my ice-pack rotation and the agonizing wait for pathology.
“The ice wrap,” Luca rasps, his voice a rough, heavy gravel as he slowly, carefully lowers my leg back to the slate floorboard.
He doesn’t step away entirely, but the possessive storm gives way to fierce, protective restraint.
He keeps his arm wrapped gently around my waist, supporting my weight while his forehead comes to rest in the curve of my neck.
His chest heaves against mine, his hard body still aching and rigid with unspent need, but he refuses to push further or risk my healing.
“Your rotation is up,” he whispers against my skin, his warm breath brushing my collarbone as he turns off the shower taps.
The roaring water dies down to a quiet trickle. Pink water swirls down the dark slate drain, carrying away the last traces of the war outside.
Luca reaches for a thick, dry bath sheet from the rack, wrapping it carefully around my shoulders, shielding my left chest wall from any draft.
He steps out of the glass enclosure, grabs my phone from the vanity, and silences the alarm chime before reaching for my pain medication and a fresh gel ice wrap from the mini-cooler.
I stand in the steamy bathroom, wrapped in the heavy cotton towel, watching my husband.
He stands bare-chested in the dim light, water dripping from his dark hair, his hands steady as he prepares my medication. A man who just executed an ambush squad with ruthless violence, now handling my post-op care with reverent, unbroken gentleness.
I hold the towel tight against my ribs. My heart aches with a raw, blinding heat that has nothing to do with my biopsy dressing.
I should be afraid of him, I think, my fingers gripping the soft cotton fabric as he turns back to me with the ice wrap in his hand. I’m not. That’s what frightens me.