8. Luca
Luca
“Dante’s wife invited you to lunch tomorrow.”
Giada sits beside me at my desk, her attention fixed on the payment records she reorganized yesterday.
“Why?”
“Polina wants to meet you.”
“Does she expect me to accept?”
“No. She asked me to extend the invitation. The answer is yours.”
Her fingers press into the knees of her trousers. “Will you be there?”
“No. You’ll have lunch alone.”
She considers that. “I’ll go.”
“Good.” I turn the monitor toward her. “My men confirmed the pattern you found. The payments lead to an account we hadn’t connected to the loyalists.”
“Did I interfere with their work?”
“You advanced it.”
“They may be upset that I found what they missed.”
“They’ll survive.” I brace one palm on the desk. “Your mind is remarkable.”
Pink spreads across her cheeks. Her gaze drops to the seam of my tie.
“My family didn’t agree,” she says. “Papa said questions made me difficult. My brothers called me a freak when I covered my ears. They made noises beside me to punish me for it.”
I push away from the desk. “What else did they do?”
She keeps her attention on my tie. “They held my arms and forced me to eat things that made me gag. When I vomited, Mama made me clean the floor. She said a normal daughter wouldn’t humiliate her family over food. She said I was made wrong.”
Rage locks my jaw. Every new piece of her childhood gives me another reason to hunt down Antonio Rafinelli.
“They were wrong,” I say.
“About which part?”
“All of it. You’re intelligent, honest, and more interesting than anyone I’ve ever known. It’s not you that’s made wrong—it’s them.”
Her attention remains on my tie for several seconds. “Will you hug me again?”
I pull her against me, one hand between her shoulder blades and the other across her lower back. She places both palms on my shirt and settles into the pressure.
My cock hardens against her stomach.
Her body warms beneath my hands. She turns her face toward my neck and takes a long breath.
“I want to kiss you,” she says.
I cup her cheek. “Then kiss me.”
She rises onto her toes and presses her lips to mine. I take control before the kiss has lasted a second. My arm locks around her waist, and my hand closes around the back of her neck.
Her lips part. The invitation strips away the last of my restraint. I angle her face up and take her mouth harder. She makes a startled sound against me, then catches the front of my shirt in both fists and pulls me closer. Good.
I guide her toward the leather sofa along the office wall. The backs of her legs meet the cushion, but I keep her upright with one arm around her waist.
“I’m going to keep holding you this tightly.”
“Yes. Please.”
My arm locks around her. I press her against me from shoulder to thigh and kiss her again.
This time, she meets me with no hesitation. Her tongue touches mine. One careful stroke, then another. I answer with more force, and her fists loosen. Her palms flatten against my shirt.
She likes certainty, firm contact, and a clear next step. I can give her all three.
“Put your arms around my neck.”
She obeys. The movement brings her breasts against me, soft beneath her sweater. My cock hardens until every beat of my pulse becomes another demand.
Giada breaks the kiss. Her lips are wet and parted. “Is this how kissing usually is?”
“No.” I keep her close against me.
“What’s different?”
“I’ve never wanted to keep doing it this much.”
Her gaze fixes on my mouth. “Please keep doing it.”
I sit and bring her onto my lap. She settles astride me, her knees on either side of my hips. “Are you all right here?”
“Yes.” She moves her hips once, testing the position, and presses against my erection. “Your penis is hard.”
A laugh catches in my throat. “You’re sitting on it.”
“That means you’re aroused.”
Christ. “Yes, I’m fucking aroused.”
“Me too. Do you want me to move?”
“If you move, I’m going to want far more than a kiss.”
Her arms tighten around my neck. “I already want more than a kiss.”
The answer is direct and honest. No guile, no pretense with my wife. Nothing for me to interpret or maneuver around.
I run both palms from her waist to her hips, using enough pressure that she tracks every inch. “I’m going to touch your breasts over your sweater.”
“Both of them?”
“Both.” My thumbs press into her waist.
“Yes. Okay. Yes.” Her words emerge breathlessly.
I cup her through the fabric. Her nipples are hard against my palms. She pushes forward, offering herself, and I knead her breasts while I kiss the side of her neck.
“Harder,” she says.
I give her what she asks for. Her hips move against me, and a rough sound leaves her mouth.
“Was that good?” I ask.
“Yes. Do it again.”
I squeeze again, harder this time. Her nails press into my neck. I’ve never been so fucking turned on in my life. Every honest response from her drives me closer to the edge than any polished seduction ever has.
“I’m going to touch your inner thigh over your trousers.” I keep both palms on her waist while I wait. “Nothing between your legs unless you ask.”
Her brow draws in. “Why wouldn’t I ask?”
“You may not want it.”
“I want your hand on my thigh.”
I close my palm around her inner thigh through her trousers. She shudders and leans into me.
“Firm enough?”
“More.”
My fingers press into soft flesh as I move my palm higher. I stop before reaching the center seam.
Her hips push forward. “More,” she repeats.
“Tell me where.”
Pink spreads over her cheeks, but she takes my wrist and moves my hand between her legs.
“There.”
I rub her through her pants with two fingers. Her whole body tightens over mine. She looks down at my hand between her legs, following each stroke.
“I’m going to press harder.”
“Yes.”
I stroke her through her trousers. Her forehead comes down against mine, and her hips follow my fingers in short, urgent movements.
“Luca.” My name from her mouth tests the last of my control.
I kiss her, keeping the same firm rhythm until she tears away.
“I want your fingers inside my pants.”
I stop. Her eyes lift to mine. “Was that the wrong thing to ask?”
“No.” My hand remains against her thigh. “It’s exactly the right thing to ask.”
“Then why did you stop?”
Because if I put my fingers inside her, I won’t want this to end on a sofa. I’ll carry her upstairs, put her in my bed, and take everything she offered me on our wedding night out of duty.
I take my hand from between her legs and settle it on her hip.
“Luca.” Anger sharpens her face. “I said I wanted it.”
“You did.” I hold her hips with firm pressure so ending the sexual contact doesn’t become rejection.
“I was honest.” Her fingers bunch my shirt again.
“I believe you. On our wedding night, you said sex was the next step and a husband was entitled to it.”
Her mouth closes.
“Any choice about sex needs to come from what you want, not what you believe a wife owes her husband. Wanting my mouth, my hands, or my cock are separate choices. I won’t make one answer cover all three.”
“I’m attracted to you.”
“I believe that too.” The admission does nothing to cool my blood.
“Your penis is hard.”
“Painfully.”
Her gaze drops between us. “So stopping is unpleasant for both of us.”
“Very.” I move her off the hardest part of my erection.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to tonight.” I lift her from my lap and set her beside me before my good intentions fail.
She sits with her knees pressed together. Her swollen lips and rumpled sweater make leaving her untouched a punishment meant for me.
Giada looks at my mouth, then at my hands. She places her palm over the hard length beneath my trousers. Deliberate pressure. No reluctance.
Every muscle in my body locks. “I wanted to do that,” she says.
“I gathered.”
“I want to kiss you again too.”
“You should go upstairs.”
“That wasn’t permission.”
I lean close enough for my lips to brush hers once. “Yes, Giada. You may kiss me.”
She does. One hard, thorough kiss before she stands.
At the office door, she looks back at me. Her cheeks remain pink, but her chin is high.
“I’m going to work out the rest of my answer,” she says. “Then you won’t be able to doubt me.”
She leaves me on the sofa, hard and aching, with a promise I intend to collect.