I was shocked at the sudden movement. Ant's lips brushed against mine. They felt so soft and delicate, and his mouth smells like cigarette. Fucking smoker.
He started moving his lips, but I was too surprised that I didn't know what to do. What was I supposed to do when this was my first kiss.
"Open your mouth ," he whispered against my lips.
I was shocked. I should open my mouth? I sign and complied.
And the next thing I felt, was his tongue inside my mouth. The way he rolled his tongue in my mouth, and teased my tongue was so perfect that I almost let out a moan.
Pull yourself together Isabella. You don't want to embarrass yourself.
He kept on kissing me, and everything felt so magical and I felt like I was on top of the universe. I love this feeling of his tongue, in my mouth.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, and tried to kiss him with the same pace and force. But it was impossible because that was my first kiss.
I felt him smiling between our kisses what a jerk.
When he finally pulled back, my lips tingled, my heart still beating out of rhythm.
"What was that for?" I managed to whisper, still catching my breath.
He gave a small, crooked smile. "You talk too much."
I blinked, half-offended, half-stunned. "So you kissed me to make me quiet?"
"Maybe," he said, that teasing edge in his tone again. "It worked, didn't it?"
I wanted to snap at him, but I couldn't. My voice just wouldn't come. He had no idea what kind of storm he'd just started inside me.
I turned away quickly, pretending to look at the painting on the wall. "Nice… uh, wall," I muttered, cringing at how stupid that sounded.
He chuckled — low, amused, infuriating. "You're blushing," he said.
"I'm not."
"You are."
I crossed my arms, refusing to look at him. "You can't just kiss people out of nowhere, Antonio."
He stepped closer, and I could feel his presence behind me before I even turned. "You weren't exactly complaining, and you kissed me and also wrapped your tiny hands around me. It means you also enjoyed the kiss." he murmured.
I spun around to face him, my cheeks burning. "That's because you caught me off guard! Who does that?"
He smiled, that same small smirk that always made it hard to stay angry. "Someone who doesn't like wasting words when actions work better."
For a second, I forgot how to breathe again.
Antonio's fingers slipped around mine — firm, unyielding. "Come on," he said simply.
"Where are we going?" I asked, trying to pull my hand back.
"To your room."
My heart stuttered. My what?
He didn't explain, just led me up the stairs like it was the most normal thing in the world. His grip stayed secure, his pace steady, his silence doing more damage than any words could.
When we reached the last door on the left, he stopped and turned the handle.
"Go shower," he said flatly. "We'll eat after."
He gave me a light push inside — not rough, just enough to show who was in control.
"Hold on," I blurted before he could close the door.
He paused, turning slightly, one brow raised in that lazy, dangerous way that made my pulse jump.
"What?" he asked.
"I can't repeat this cloth after bathing," I said, crossing my arms.
"Hold on," he replied and turned around, leaving the room.
I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was ridiculously soft — softer than anything I'd ever slept on. My fingers pressed into the sheets, and I couldn't help but sink into it a little. It was way more comfortable than my bed at home.
My eyes wandered around the room — everything screamed luxury. The chandelier, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air, the huge mirror against the wall. The room was probably bigger than my father's entire sitting room.
Speaking of which…
How exactly did he convince my dad that I wouldn't be coming home tonight?
The door opened, and Antonio walked back in, holding a white button-down shirt.
"Here," he said, tossing it onto the bed.
I looked at it, then at him. "That's your shirt."
He shrugged. "You said you don't have anything to wear. Problem solved."
I frowned at the shirt, then back at him. "You seriously expect me to wear that?"
"It's clean," he said with a teasing smirk. "And it'll look better on you anyway."
"I can't wear that," I protested.
His lips curved. "You can. And you will. Unless you'd prefer I help you out of those clothes myself."
My eyes went wide. "You're unbelievable."
"Compliment accepted," he said and leaned on the doorframe, clearly amused.
"Go shower, piccola," he said, his tone dropping into that smooth, commanding register that made my stomach twist. "Before I change my mind and help you myself."
My eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare."
He only smiled. That slow, infuriating smirk that made it hard to tell if he was joking or serious.
I grabbed the shirt from the bed and stomped into the bathroom, muttering something under my breath that made him chuckle behind me.
Inside, I locked the door and leaned against it for a moment, breathing out.
What's wrong with him? I thought. And why does he keep saying things that make my heart race like this?
I turned on the shower and let the warm water hit my skin, trying to calm down. When I finished, I slipped into his shirt — it was huge on me, reaching down to my thighs. The fabric smelled faintly of him — cedarwood and something darker, sharper. It made me feel both safe and uneasy at the same time.
When I walked out, he was sitting casually on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. His eyes lifted the moment he noticed me, and the smirk returned instantly.
"What?" I asked, tugging at the hem of the shirt.
"Nothing," he said, standing up. "Just admiring how my shirt looks better on you than it ever did on me."
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my blush. "Can we just go eat now?"
"Sure," he said, moving closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. "But I'm starting to think keeping you here tonight wasn't such a bad idea after all."
I looked away quickly, ignoring the way my pulse picked up again as he brushed past me, heading toward the door.
He led me into the kitchen, still holding my hand like I'd disappear if he let go.
"Sit," he said simply.
"Where?" I asked, glancing around.
He didn't bother answering. Instead, he gripped my waist and lifted me effortlessly onto the counter. I blinked at him. "Do you always manhandle people like that?"
He smirked, turning toward the fridge. "Only the ones who talk too much."
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse betrayed me. He started gathering things — pasta, tomatoes, garlic — all from memory, moving around the kitchen like he owned the space… which, well, he did.
"You actually cook?" I asked, watching him chop with easy precision.
"Of course. What did you think? That I live on blood and vengeance?"
"Wouldn't be surprised," I said under my breath.
He gave a low laugh, glancing at me. "Careful, little one. I might take that as an invitation."
I tried not to react, but my body didn't get the memo. I couldn't turn away, I kept watching him while he stirred the pan.
The smell of garlic and butter filled the air, warm and intoxicating — or maybe that was just him.
"Stop staring," he said without turning.
"I'm not staring," I muttered.
"Sure, piccola." His voice was smooth, teasing.
He leaned against the counter beside me as the food simmered, his hand resting on my thigh. I froze.
"You're awfully quiet," he said, voice low.
"I'm just… watching."
"Hmm," he hummed, tilting his head, eyes flicking up to meet mine. "That's new. You always talk back."
"I don't see a reason to," I replied, but my voice came out softer than I intended.
He smiled — slow, knowing. "Then maybe I should keep cooking."
I swallowed hard, trying not to smile. "You're ridiculous."
He shrugged, turning back to the pan. "Maybe. But you're smiling."
"No, I'm not," I said quickly.
"Sure you're not," he teased again, his tone dipped in amusement.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was heavy. The sound of the pan, the warmth of his body beside mine, the faint rhythm of our breathing — everything seemed too loud, too close.
Finally, he turned off the stove, grabbed two plates, and handed me one. "Dinner's ready."
"What, no fancy candlelight tonight?" I asked, half-smiling.
He looked at me with that same unreadable expression — calm on the outside, storming underneath. "You want candles, piccola?" he asked quietly. "I can make that happen."
I looked away, pretending to focus on my hands. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, brushing past me to grab a fork, "you're still here."
I was about to slide off the counter, but before my feet even touched the ground, his hands caught my waist again, pulling me toward him instead.
He carried me to the dining room and pulled a chair, but before I could get down, he grabbed my waist, sat down and pulled me to his lap.
"Look at me," he said, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument.
I froze for a heartbeat, my pulse quickening. "Antonio—"
"Look at me," he interrupted, his breath brushing against my cheek.
I hesitated, but eventually raced my head, straddling him. The move made my heart race.
His hands were firm on my hips as if he had every right to keep them there."This isn't how people eat dinner," I muttered.
He smirked. "We're not people, piccola. We're us."He picked up the fork, twirling it lazily before raising it to my lips. The closeness was unbearable — his eyes locked on me, the corner of his mouth tilted up like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
"Eat," he said softly.
I obeyed before I could stop myself. The food tasted amazing, but I barely noticed; every sense was tuned to him — his voice, his scent, the warmth of his hands.
"See? Not so bad," he murmured, brushing a thumb across my jaw.
"You're so tense. Relax."
"I can't exactly relax when you're—"
"Feeding you?" he teased.
"Sitting me here," I corrected, glaring at him.
He only chuckled, his gaze darkening. "You think I'd let you sit anywhere else?"
"You're crazy," I whispered.
"Only around you, piccola."
He fed me again, slower this time, his eyes never leaving mine. Every time his hand touched mine, my stomach did this weird flip.
When I tried to look away, he caught my chin. "Don't look away when I'm talking to you."
I glared at him, trying not to blush. "You're unbelievable."
He smirked. "You'll get used to me."
The room went quiet. His hand stayed on my waist, warm and firm. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
We were still at the dining table, and I was halfway through the last bite when his phone began to ring. He glanced at the screen, and I noticed how his expression changed — calm at first, then suddenly sharper.
He answered the call, speaking in rapid Italian.
"Dove sei adesso?" (Where are you now?) he asked, his voice low but commanding.
Whoever was on the other end responded just as quickly. I couldn't understand a word, only catching the name Raffaele somewhere in the middle.
Antonio's jaw flexed slightly, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Perfetto. Aspettami lì, arrivo subito." (Perfect. Wait for me there, I'll be right out.)
He dropped the phone on the table and stood up, his chair scraping lightly against the floor.
"Who was that?" I asked, my voice a little uneasy.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked down at me with that same cold, unreadable stare.
"No one you need to worry about," he said, then paused. "Put on your slippers, piccola. There's something I want you to see." I got down from his lap and whore my slippers.
"Come with me," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I frowned but followed him as he climbed the stairs, his steps steady and silent. When we got to the room beside his, he opened the door and motioned for me to enter.
"What's this about?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the wardrobe and pulled it open, revealing a few shopping bags neatly arranged inside. From one of them, he brought out a long black dress. It looked new — elegant, soft, expensive — and definitely not something he just found lying around.
He turned to me, eyes dark. "Change into this," he said simply.
"Why? I'm fine like this," I replied, looking down at his shirt that I was wearing — oversized, soft, and reaching halfway down my thighs.
His jaw tightened slightly. "You're not walking out there wearing my shirt for everyone to see."
My brows furrowed. "What are you talking about? It's just—"
He stepped closer, cutting me off. "You're mine," he said, voice low but firm. "And I don't share what's mine."
I froze, my breath catching for a second. There it was again — that quiet possessiveness that made him both fascinating and impossible to understand.
He placed the dress on the bed. "Put it on, piccola. We're going somewhere."
"Where?" I asked cautiously.
He gave a faint smirk, his gaze steady on me. "You'll see soon enough."
I stood still, my fingers brushing over the silky fabric. "You're not going to leave?" I asked, raising a brow.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with that same unreadable expression. "Why would I?" he said casually, but his eyes gave him away — sharp, unwavering, focused entirely on me.
"Because I'm supposed to change," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head slightly. "Then change," he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
My jaw dropped a little. "Antonio—"
He sighed, finally pushing himself off the frame. "Fine," he muttered, though there was a teasing curve at the corner of his lips. "Make it quick, piccola. Don't keep me waiting."
When he left, I exhaled deeply, clutching the dress. That man is impossible, I thought as I quickly slipped into it. The fabric hugged me in all the right places, the slit running down my thigh making me feel both nervous and strangely confident.
By the time I stepped out, he was waiting just outside the door, hands in his pockets. His gaze drifted over me slowly, from head to toe, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"It looks too good on you," he said finally, voice low, almost like a growl.
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide how fast my heart was beating. "So, where exactly are we going?"
He smirked. "You'll see. Let's just say… I want you to understand the kind of world you've stepped into."