10. Luca #2
Then—finally, finally, finally—
"I’m yours," she whispers.
I snap.
I thrust into her, filling her completely, groaning at how fucking tight she is.
She gasps, her body bowing, her nails biting into my back.
I don’t give her time to adjust.
I pull back and pound into her again.
And again.
And again.
I don’t let up until she’s moaning, begging, completely wrecked beneath me.
Until I feel her tighten, break, shatter.
And when I follow, groaning her name as I fill her, as I mark her, as I claim every last piece of her—
I know.
She’s done fighting.
She’s mine.
Forever.
---
The room is silent.
Heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and something darker.
Something deeper.
Something neither of us is willing to name.
I lie back against the pillows, my arm draped over my forehead, my breathing slowing as I drag in deep, controlled breaths.
Beside me, Gilly is stiff.
Still.
Her back turned to me, the sheets tangled around her waist, her shoulders bare.
But I can see her hands.
Fisted into the fabric.
White-knuckled.
Unsteady.
Her breathing is shallow, her body wound too tight, like she’s trying to hold herself together—like if she lets go, she’ll shatter.
I smirk lazily, my voice a deep rasp.
“Admit it, baby.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t answer.
But I don’t need her to.
I already know.
I reach out, tracing a slow, lazy finger along the length of her spine.
She flinches.
But she doesn’t pull away.
My smirk widens.
“You can fight me all you want,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles up her back, letting them linger at the base of her neck. “But your body doesn’t lie.”
She stiffens.
Tightens her grip on the sheets.
And then—she does the thing that makes my chest tighten.
She whispers, barely audible—
“I hate you.”
But her hands still reach for me in the dark.
Her fingers twitch against the sheets, barely moving—barely reaching.
Like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
Like she doesn’t want to stop herself.
I smirk against the dark, stretching my body lazily, exhaling through my nose as I let the moment settle. Let her sit in it.
She doesn’t move.
She stays frozen, curled on her side, her spine stiff, the sheets wrapped tight around her like a shield that does nothing.
Because I’m already under her skin.
Already inside her mind.
Already the thing she can’t escape.
I roll onto my side, propping my head on my hand as I drag my gaze down the length of her body—down the curve of her back, the subtle tremble in her shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of her breath.
She’s unraveling.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Beautifully.
I reach for her again, my fingers skimming the dip of her waist, my touch light but deliberate.
She shudders.
“Go to sleep, Luca,” she mutters, voice hoarse, brittle.
I chuckle, low and rough.
“You think sleep is going to save you from me, baby?”
She sucks in a sharp breath, and I hear it. The way it stutters. The way she’s fighting for control.
Fighting for something she lost the second she walked into my life three years ago.
The second she let me touch her again.
The second she stopped running.
I press my lips against her bare shoulder, lingering there, breathing her in.
Lavender.
Vanilla.
Gilly.
She’s too still.
Too silent.
Like she thinks if she doesn’t move, I’ll let her be.
Like she thinks I’ll roll over and let her pretend this didn’t happen.
She should know better.
I drag my lips along her skin, slow and unhurried, following the curve of her shoulder to the nape of her neck, where I press a kiss.
Soft.
Dangerous.
She jerks. “Luca—”
I hum against her skin. “Go to sleep, baby.”
A warning.
A promise.
A reminder.
I’m not done with her.
Not even close.
She lets out a shaky exhale, then shifts forward, pulling the sheets higher, putting distance between us.
It makes me smirk.
Because we both know she’s not going anywhere.
Not anymore.
---
I wake before dawn.
The sky beyond the balcony doors is still dark, the ocean stretching endlessly into the night, waves crashing against the cliffs below.
Beside me, Gilly is still asleep.
Still wrapped in my sheets.
Still tangled up in me.
I glance down at her, taking in the way she’s curled into the mattress, the soft part of her lips, the dark strands of hair fanned across my pillow.
She looks peaceful.
She looks mine.
And then—her brows knit together.
Her body tenses.
Her breath stutters.
Like even in sleep, she’s trying to fight me.
Trying to fight herself.
I exhale through my nose, shaking my head as I slide out of bed, leaving her there.
She won’t sleep much longer.
Not after last night.
Not after what we did.
Not after the war we waged between the sheets, between our bodies, between the lies she keeps telling herself.
I walk to the bathroom, turning on the water, letting it run hot as I brace my hands against the counter.
The reflection in the mirror stares back at me.
The man who owns her.
The man who will make her admit the truth.
The man who will make sure she never runs again.
A slow, satisfied smirk curls my lips.
Because Gilly can fight all she wants.
She can throw my ring.
She can scream, curse, hate.
But she’s still in my bed.
And she’s not leaving.
Not ever.
I reach for a towel, dragging it over my face, my muscles loose, relaxed.
But when I turn to leave—
I stop.
Right there, on the counter.
Where she left it.
My wedding ring.
I let out a low chuckle, rolling it between my fingers.
She thought this was some kind of power move.
Thought she was making a statement.
She still doesn’t understand.
I already own her.
Ring or not.
I slip it back onto my finger, turning toward the door.
She’ll realize soon enough.
That no matter how much she fights—
No matter how many times she throws this damn ring at me—
She’ll always end up back in my bed.
In my world.
In my arms.
Where she belongs.