CHAPTER 20
ROXANNE
The water ran hot over my skin, washing away the sweat, the sex and the ache of him. I stood there longer than I needed to—smiling, remembering, letting the steam blur everything—until my breath slowed and my body softened.
I slipped into an oversized tee and underwear, the cotton cool against my skin.
The moment my head hit the pillow, sleep took me.
But it didn’t last. The air was cool against my skin as I stirred awake.
The bed beside me was empty. Moonlight crept across the room, brushing against the curtains that fluttered in the breeze.
I tossed and turned, the silence too loud, the absence too sharp.
My hair was undone, tangled from sleep and memory.
I sat at the edge of the bed, aching for the comfort of Marcello’s presence.
The ghost of his touch still clung to me, a phantom warmth I couldn’t shake.
I slipped out of the room, barefoot, wearing only the t-shirt.
The fabric clung to me at my chest—my breasts swayed freely beneath it, nipples brushing against the cotton with every step.
The hallway was quiet. I padded down it slowly, peeking into rooms, searching.
Every step made me pulse in anticipation, as if I could feel him even before I saw him.
My thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to tame the throb he’d left in me.
Then I heard it—light chatter, a faint glow beneath a double door. I knocked and Antonio opened it. His eyes swept over me, from bare legs to tousled hair pulled to one side.
He turned to Marcello, smirking. “Message for you.”
Heat rushed up my neck—half shame, half excitement at being seen like this. I brushed past him, leaning against the closed door.
Marcello looked up from behind the desk, eyes wide. He looked tired—three buttons undone, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, and a hint of dark circles beneath his eyes. I felt it in my chest before I saw it, the slow burn of his gaze, dark and unmistakable.
The sight of me leaning against the door, arms crossed to hide my breasts, made something flicker in him. His throat bobbed—a single, hard swallow he didn’t hide fast enough.
I didn’t notice Santino at first. He was standing near the bookshelf, half in shadow, watching.
Silent. But when I moved deeper into the room, he stepped forward slowly.
His gaze dragged over me, and I felt it.
The heat. The awareness. He stiffened, then smirked.
And as he passed, his arm brushed mine—light, intentional.
A touch that lingered. A wink followed. Slow. Loaded.
I inhaled sharply. Because I felt him. And Marcello did too.
Marcello’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything. Each step closer to Marcello made me ache, a pull in my core I couldn’t hide.
But when I stepped closer to Marcello, his hand found my waist firmly. Claiming. Like he was reminding me. Or reminding himself.
I felt the heat radiating from him as he exhaled; my stomach clenched. His fingers tightened just enough to say mine without words.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked gently, though his brows were furrowed.
“I did,” I said.
“But I woke up and the bed was empty. I just came to check on you. I can leave if you like.”
I gestured towards the door, meeting his gaze—knowing I’d interrupted something important, but unwilling to leave without him. Antonio stretched.
“No, stay. I’m beat as is. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
He smiled at me. “If it weren’t for you, this man wouldn’t have let me get a shut eye tonight. As it is, I don’t sleep much—with toddlers crawling over me.”
He chuckled and left, shutting the door behind him. Santino followed, silent.
The study was old-world Italian—arched ceilings with limewash finish.
Hardwood flooring warm to the touch. A heavy oak desk stood to the right.
The windows in front were tall, framed in stone, and the fire to the left in the hearth crackled low.
Surrounded by dark walnut shelves lined with leather-bound books.
“You shouldn’t have come down wearing just this,” he said, putting away a file into the drawer.
His hand moved to my ass, fingers curling just enough to make me gasp. I felt the tension in his jaw, the way he was holding back everything he wanted to do to me. My breath hitched—a tiny sound, but it pulled his gaze down my body like gravity.
“What are you going to do about it? Bend me over this desk and spank me?” I teased.
He pulled me closer, resting his head against my stomach, hands now gripping my ass like he was holding back a storm.
His breath was hot against my skin. I felt the tremble in his jaw.
His fingers dug into me slightly, a warning and a promise all at once, and my body responded before my mind could catch up.
“Don’t tempt me.”
My chest tightened, and heat swelled between my legs.
This man’s had a way to undo me with words alone.
He stood up and swiftly lifted me over his shoulder—caveman style.
I was no frail woman. I was curvy, plump, and yet this gorgeous, muscled man hoisted me with effortless ease, as if my weight was something he welcomed, not noticed.
I yelped, giggling as he carried me through the hallway up the staircase to the room.
Each step up the stairs was a declaration. His hand landed on my ass—firm, territorial. I giggled, but inside, my core was on fire, anticipating the next time his hand met my ass.
Thank God it was the private wing of the resort; otherwise, the guests would’ve woken up to all our playful noise. He tossed me onto the bed, panting slightly. I propped myself up on my elbows, one leg bent.
“You’re strong, Mr. Vitale.”
It was the first time I’d called him that. That alone made him grin ear to ear like he loved the sound of it. He peeled off his shirt.
He kissed his way up my legs, unhurried and careful, as though he was trying to make the moment last before the goodbye neither of us wanted to say.
His fingers brushed the nape of my neck, and I shivered from the ache of wanting to belong to him. He kissed me—deep, consuming. This time, it wasn’t desperate. It was slow and intentional.
Clothes came off. We memorised each other—breaths, scent, skin. I pulled him closer, as he trailed tiny bites across my neck, down to my chest and breast. He teased me as he was grinding against my entrance.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, voice thick with need.
“You. All of you,” I gasped.
He slid into me slow and deep. And I broke, responding to him the way my body always did. Each gasp and moan left me exposed in a way I didn’t know I wanted, my body and mind surrendering to him completely.
“You fit me perfectly. It’s like you were made for me,” he said between kisses.
It was true. I never felt this with anyone before. I could feel my walls convulsing around him, making him feel thicker. The way he held me made it impossible to pretend this was just physical. I came undone, calling out his name as my nails dug into his arm, leaving marks.
We switched over. I straddled him, hips rolling in slow circles.
I wanted him to see me unravel, to know I belonged to him in this moment, and only him.
My fingers danced over my skin—neck, breasts, thighs.
I touched myself; eyes locked on his. I wanted him to see me.
To watch me fall apart. To know that this chaos was his doing.
It was reckless, giving him that kind of power—but I couldn’t stop.
With one hand, I reached down and massaged my clit. His hands dug deeper into my hips, matching my rhythm, eyes feral with lust. Our paces quickened. I dropped down to him as he held me, thrusting deep. I sat up and pushed my head back as we both came undone.
He moaned, sitting up to hold me. I bit his shoulder, then wrapped my arms around him, hugging him into a tight embrace.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I let out a sob. “I…”
I wanted to tell him. That I felt something. That I had developed feelings for him. Even in this short while. I still did. That I might be in love with him.
But instead, I whispered, “I’ll miss you.”
The truth pressed against my ribs, begging to be spoken. I wanted to say more. That I felt something real. That I didn’t know how to carry it home with me.
But the words stayed lodged in my throat, afraid of what they might break. He held me tighter, and I cried. He didn’t let go. Just held me, bare and trembling, until sleep took me again.
I woke to soft snoring. He was beside me, sleeping on his stomach, blanket draped low across his hips.
I reached for my phone. No messages. No calls. I turned on the camera and took a photo of him—a keepsake.
His lips were parted; his head tilted towards me. His back rose and fell with each breath, muscles shifting beneath his skin. A traditional Thai Sak Yant stretched between his shoulder blades—lines of protection and power inked into him.
His hair was ruffled, wild from our night. I watched him breathe. And for a moment, I let myself believe he was mine.
I should have looked away, but I couldn’t. Not from him. Not from this. Then came a knock.
Marcello stirred, groaning.
“Ignore it. Don’t go.”
I slipped on a robe and opened the door. The maid stood there, polite and composed.
“Signor Antonio will be waiting for you both on the cliffside terrace for brunch.”
I nodded and returned to the bed. Marcello was still half-asleep.
With eyes closed, he patted my side of the bed, motioning me to come back to bed.
I climbed back in, brushing my fingers through his hair, planting soft kisses along his jaw, shoulder, and down his back.
Each kiss deepened into a bite—gentle, teasing—leaving faint marks across his skin.
I nibbled his ear, whispering,
“Wake up. Antonio is waiting.”
He rolled over, pulling me on top of him. Nuzzling into my neck, he said,
“I could get used to an alarm like this.”
I blushed, laughing softly. But the warmth in my chest was quickly replaced by a quiet ache. I hadn’t told him. Not about my husband. Not about the turmoil in my heart. And I needed to.
I was building something fragile on borrowed time. And every kiss, every laugh, every touch made it harder to imagine leaving.
We showered together, scrubbing each other, tracing, trying to memorise the other’s body. We dressed slowly, stealing quiet kisses and touches. When we stepped out, our arms around each other’s waists, giggling like teenagers.
Antonio looked up from the terrace table, espresso in hand. His brows lifted as he leaned back in his chair, smirking.
“Cu si vidi… guardati chi si fa vidiri. Stavo quasi per chiamare la squadra di ricerca.”
(Well, well… look who decided to show up. I was about to call in a search party.)
Then, switching to English for me, his grin widening:
“I’ve been waiting.”
He said it with mock impatience, but the warmth in his voice was unmistakable. There was something in his tone—playful, but observant. Like he was cataloguing the shift between us. Like he’d seen Marcello with women before, but never like this.
His eyes flicked between us, taking in the closeness, the ease, the way Marcello’s hand rested at my waist.
Marcello didn’t respond immediately. He just exhaled through his nose, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Then he pulled out a chair for me, fingers brushing mine as I sat. He leaned towards Antonio, muttering something in Sicilian that made them both chuckle.
But his eyes kept drifting back to me. Soft. Watchful. Like he was lingering on the way I looked in the morning light. Every time our eyes met, something unspoken pulsed between us.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said to Antonio with a warm smile.
The terrace was sun-drenched, framed by terracotta arches and climbing vines. The sea stretched out beyond the cliffs, glittering in the morning light, and the pool shimmered nearby—its surface catching flecks of gold.
Antonio turned to me.
“So… Roxanne, tell me more about your work.”
I spoke with pride—about the spaces I designed, the stories I wrote, the way I tried to make emotion tangible.
My eyes lit up. I could feel it. I showed him a few completed projects and walked him through my website, mentioning when we started and my partner, Sahil.
Marcello had heard all this before. But this time, he listened differently. His eyes didn’t drift. They softened as though he was absorbing every word, like my voice was a melody he didn’t want to interrupt. He watched me as if I were reciting poetry, not pitching a portfolio.
He poured me another glass of wine, his fingers brushing mine as he handed it over. The sun warmed my skin, but it was his gaze that made me feel seen and warm my body.
Antonio leaned back in his chair, chatting easily with Marcello, but I only half-listened. My eyes drifted towards the sea—endless, glittering, unknowable.
I sipped slowly, letting the silence stretch between us. Not awkward. Just full. Full of everything we hadn’t said. Everything we might never say.
Marcello’s hand slid to my thigh beneath the table, grounding me. And for a moment, I let myself believe this could last. Then my phone buzzed.