Chapter 30
POV: Amanda
I woke to warmth.
Adrian’s chest pressed to my back, his arm heavy around my waist, his breath stirring the hair at my nape.
I shifted, just a little, and his grip tightened instantly, pulling me back flush against the hard line of his body.
“Mmm,” his voice rumbled low against my ear, still thick with sleep. “Where do you think you’re going, mia regina?”
I smiled into the pillow. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” I wiggled my hips deliberately, just to feel him twitch behind me. “But now… maybe I am.”
His groan vibrated through my spine, and I bit back a laugh.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, his hand sliding under the thin sheet, finding the bare skin of my stomach. His palm was warm, firm, and when he traced lower, brushing the edge of my panties, my breath caught.
“It’s morning,” I teased, arching against him. “You’re supposed to be tired.”
“Oh, I’m tired,” he said, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “But not of you.”
I turned in his arms, facing him. His hair was a mess, his jaw shadowed, his eyes still hazy with sleep—but God, he had never looked more devastating. I reached out and touched the stubble on his cheek, loving the way his eyes softened under my fingers.
“You’re staring,” he said with a crooked grin.
“Can you blame me?” I whispered.
His grin turned slow, wicked. “No. But I can return the favor.”
His gaze swept down my body, bare under the thin slip of lace I’d worn to bed. The look in his eyes made me flush hot all over, even though he’d seen every inch of me.
“Adrian…” I warned, though my voice betrayed me, already breathless.
“Shh,” he said, leaning in. His mouth caught mine in a kiss that started lazy, sweet, but deepened fast, like he was tasting all the mornings we’d lost. I melted into him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
The sheet tangled around us as he shifted, rolling me onto my back. His mouth trailed down my throat, over my collarbone, lingering at the swell of my breast. His tongue flicked, slow, deliberate, and I gasped, arching up into him.
“Adrian…” I breathed.
“Say it again.” His voice was hoarse, needy.
“Adrian.” This time it was a moan, shameless.
He worshipped me with his mouth until I was trembling, my thighs parting under his hand. He slid lower, kissing down my stomach, teasing until I thought I might lose my mind—until finally his mouth found me, hot and relentless.
I clutched at the sheets, then at his hair, helpless under the rhythm of his tongue. “God, you’re—”
He looked up, eyes blazing, lips slick against me. “Not God. Me. Only me.”
The orgasm tore through me, sharp and hot, my whole body shaking as he held me down and drew it out until I was gasping his name like a prayer.
Before the tremors faded, he was over me again, kissing me deep, sliding between my thighs. The blunt heat of him pressed against me, and I wrapped my legs around his hips without hesitation.
“Morning sex,” I panted against his lips. “Best invention ever.”
He smirked, lining himself up, his voice low and wicked. “Then let me perfect it.”
And when he pushed inside—slow and deep, filling me—I knew he already had.
We moved together in a rhythm that was lazy but desperate all at once, the kind of sex that belonged only to mornings, when the world was quiet and nothing existed but us. Every thrust drew soft gasps, moans, laughter that turned into kisses.
He pressed his forehead to mine, whispering in Italian—words I didn’t understand but felt down to my bones. Words that sounded like worship.
When release came again, it was softer this time, rolling through me like waves. I clung to him as he followed me over, his groan muffled against my neck.
After, we lay tangled, breathing hard, my head on his chest and his fingers lazily tracing circles on my skin.
“You know what this means?” I murmured.
“What?”
“That I’ll never let you sleep in again. Ever.”
He chuckled, low and warm, pressing a kiss into my hair. “Good. I never wanted to.”
And for the first time, the morning felt like ours.
Two weeks later
If someone had told me months ago that I’d be standing in the middle of Adrian’s villa, barefoot, debating between ivory roses or pale pink ones for a gala centerpiece… I would’ve laughed. Or cried. Probably both.
But there I was, hands on my hips, a stubborn crease between my brows, while Giuliana held up two bouquets with the air of a general about to declare war.
“The ivory is elegant,” she said firmly.
“And the pink is warm,” I countered. “Besides, Bella said it matches the dress.”
From across the room, Riccardo—who had apparently appointed himself official judge of everything—chimed in without looking up from his sketchbook. “The queen is right. Pink.”
Giuliana rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stay that way. “You’re biased.”
“I am,” he said simply, glancing up at me with a smile. “She’s my muse.”
I blushed, still not entirely used to the way he said things like that without flinching. I opened my mouth to argue but Bella appeared at my side, slipping her hand through my arm and beaming.
“Don’t waste your breath, cara. Riccardo is impossible. Now, come on—let’s try on the gown again. I want to see how it falls in this light.”
Before I could protest, she was already tugging me upstairs, Giuliana’s muttered complaints about “flimsy pink flowers” echoing behind us.
Bella was relentless. She bustled around me like a whirlwind of silk and pins, her sharp eyes softening only when she smoothed the fabric over my shoulders. The dress shimmered in the light, pale blush with tiny crystals sewn into the bodice—something between ethereal and regal.
I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze. For the first time in my life, I didn’t just look beautiful. I looked like I belonged.
“Bella…” My voice cracked, and I pressed a hand over my mouth.
She smiled knowingly, tugging gently at the hem. “It suits you. Not just because you’re Adrian’s queen. Because you’re you.”
I swallowed hard, blinking back tears, and hugged her before she could stick another pin in the dress. She let me, muttering something about ruining her work, but I didn’t miss the way her arms tightened around me.
By the time we went back downstairs, the villa was chaos in the best way.
Giuliana was ordering staff around with terrifying efficiency, Riccardo was sketching a last-minute design for the stage backdrop, and Adrian—my Adrian—was in the middle of it all, tie undone, sleeves rolled, issuing orders like a king in his castle.
The moment his eyes found me, everything stilled. The noise, the bustle, even my nerves—gone. He crossed the room in a few long strides, his hand curling around my waist, his lips brushing my temple.
“You look radiant,” he whispered.
“It’s not finished,” I said, laughing softly. “Bella practically threatened me with pins.”
“Then remind me to thank her,” he murmured against my hair.
I leaned into him, breathing in the steady beat of his heart, the smell of his cologne. Around us, the people I’d once thought of as strangers—distant, powerful, untouchable—were laughing, bickering, living. With me. With him.
Home, I thought, with a rush of warmth so strong it almost stole my breath. This wasn’t just a villa. This wasn’t just a gala. This was family.
And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of losing it.