I woke up to a gold chain brushing my lips.
A heavy hand gripped my waist—large, warm, and absolutely not mine—and when I opened my eyes, I found myself pressed against the bare chest of a man who looked like sin carved into muscle. He lay half-draped over me like he owned the bed… and apparently, me. Dark hair tousled, beard shadowing a jaw sharp enough to cut my afterlife short, and eyes—lazy, heavy, hungry—locked onto my face like he'd been waiting for me to wake up.
"Finally," he murmured, voice deep enough to vibrate through my ribs. His thumb stroked the chain hanging from his own mouth before he tugged it between his teeth and sighed. "You sleep like you're hiding from me, cara mia."
I didn't know who he was. I didn't know where I was. And I definitely didn't know why I was lying naked, in silk sheets with a man, built like a mafia executioner, naked and staring at me like I was the last thing on earth he intended to ruin gently.
But when he leaned in, lips brushing my ear, his voice low and possessive, every cell in my body remembered him before my brain could.
"You Awake, Cara..."
His hand caressing my breast, slowly brushing my nips, so tender... like a rough oakwood bruising on a fragile satin.
His hand didn't move from If anything, his hands tightened—slowly, deliberately—as if reacquainting himself with the shape that he is familar with.
He wasn't looking at my face anymore. He was looking lower.
Tracing me with a gaze so hot it felt like it left marks.
I feel something wet, teasing my nipple, I try to search what it is, and there, I saw him, eagerly watching.
Like a predator reminding himself not to bite too early.
"You don't remember, Cara ?" Luca murmured, the words more
observation than question.
His knuckles skimmed the side of my thigh—barely a touch, but enough to make my breath seize. "che peccato… your body does."
I hated the way heat shot through me at that. Hated it. Because he leaned closer, and the warmth of him—his chest, his breath, his weight—wrapped around me like a trap disguised as silk.
"You're trembling," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the strength caged around my waist. "Are you afraid of me, amore… or of how you react to me?"
I opened my mouth to answer—he didn't let me.
His hand slid up my spine in a slow, devastating drag, stopping at the nape of my neck. His thumb pressed there, lightly, possessively, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
"Look at me."
I did. I shouldn't have.
Because He looked at me like he was remembering every version of me I had forgotten.
And the worst part?
My pulse leaped.
He saw it—of course he did—and his lips curved into a slow, devastating smirk.
"Good," he breathed, and he slowly insert his finger to my deepest screet.
"Hnggggh..." I gasped.
His finger move like it touch something sacred, slowly exploring...rubbing...gently, but it slowly makes a sensation so primal, I need to let my self to scream a little.
He didn't kiss me. That would've been mercy.
Instead, he let his lips hover—barely brushing, almost touching—just enough to set my nerves alight, just enough to make my body lean in before my mind could catch up.
Then he pulled back with a soft, lethal chuckle.
"Your memories can lie," Luca said, voice low and sure. "But your reactions never do."
For a moment, we just breathed in the same air — too close, too warm, too something I didn't want to name.
Then, something in his expression… shifted.
A flicker, sharp and dark. Wrong in a way that made the sheets feel suddenly too thin, too exposing.
His thumb stroked the back of my neck once.
Slow and measured.
Then he spoke.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice dangerously soft, "why did you flinch when I touched you?"
I swallowed. "I—I just woke up, I don't—"
His other hand slid from my waist to my hip, tightening just enough to make my breath skip.
"Not that," he cut in, tone calm… too calm. "I can feel when my wife's body recognizes me."
He leaned in, jaw grazing my cheek as he spoke into my skin.
"I'm asking why your eyes looked like you were searching for someone else."
My heart dropped.
What?
He pulled back just enough to look at me properly. And God—his eyes weren't lazy anymore. They were sharp. Glacial. Hunter's focus.
"Who," He asked, "did you expect to see when you opened your eyes?"
"I—no one—"
"Liar."
The word wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
His fingers slid to my jaw, holding it in place, forcing my gaze to meet his
"Look at me," Luca growled.
My breath caught. I didn't want to look. Because looking was a mistake.
But his grip didn't give me a choice. My eyes met his—and my mind went silent.
God. God, I shouldn't be seeing this up close.
His face hovered inches from mine, every sharp, dangerous angle illuminated in the dim morning light. Dark hair fell messily over his forehead, strands brushing his temple in a way that made him look like he'd woken from a hunt, not sleep. Heavy brows framed eyes so dark they didn't reflect light—they absorbed it. Pulled it in. Pulled me in.
"See me," he whispered, thumb sliding under my cheekbone, forcing my gaze to stay locked on his. "All of me."
I tried to look away. His grip tightened—not cruel, just final.
"No, amore. You don't look anywhere but me."
He leaned closer, and I had to tilt my chin higher to keep meeting his eyes. The position made me far too aware of everything else.
His shoulders—broad, sculpted, impossibly solid—filled my entire field of vision. He looked like a statue cut from heat and muscle, all power without an ounce of softness. The morning light caught on the faint sheen along his collarbone, outlining the long lines of strength leading down to his chest.
And God—his chest. Bare. Defined. The kind of definition that came from years of discipline, not vanity. Powerful pectorals, the ridges beneath them rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths, like he refused to let even his lungs disobey him.
My gaze slipped lower— His grip snapped my attention back to his face with a low, warning exhale.
"Eyes here," he ordered. "If you look anywhere else, you'll start remembering things I can't let you forget yet."
His breath brushed my lips. My pulse tripped.
But even held in place, I couldn't stop seeing him. Every line. Every inch.
His throat—strong, tanned, the gold chain resting against it like it belonged to him as much as I did. His abs—shadowed lines of muscle stacked in tight definition, like he was carved with cruel precision. His hips—lean, narrow, dangerous in how effortlessly they guided all that strength.
My face, breathing, and logic, all dissolved.
"Good," he murmured, reading every reaction. "Now you're seeing me properly cara."
His thumb stroked the corner of my lip—slow, deliberate. A motion that felt far too intimate for a man I didn't remember.
"Do you understand now," He whispered, voice deep enough to shake through me, "why I don't tolerate your eyes on anyone else?"
I swallowed, and his eyes narrowed—watching my throat move, tracking it with heat so intense it made my knees tremble even though I was sitting.
"Say it," he breathed, leaning in, nose brushing mine. "Tell me you see who your husband is."
I exhaled, barely a whisper. "I… see you."
His expression darkened—satisfaction, danger, and something possessive enough to steal the air out of my lungs.
"That," he said softly, like a promise and a warning, "is the only thing that matters."
"You looked scared," he said quietly.
"Not of me. Scared that… someone else might find you here." His gaze darkened. "A lover?"
"No!" I protested—
His reaction was instant.
The hand on my hip clenched, dragging me closer against his chest as his breath hitched—barely, but enough to betray the sudden spike of emotion he didn't want me to see.
Possessiveness.
"Nobody touches what's mine." He said it like an oath he'd carved into bone.
My pulse stumbled. His eyes dropped to my throat, watching it.
"You tremble at the thought of him," he muttered, jealousy sinking into every line of his face. "But you tremble under my hands."
He brushed his thumb down my inner sanctum.
"Which one do you think I'll believe, amore?".
I couldn't answer. I couldn't even think.
He lowered his head to my sacred place, breathing in like he was steadying something violent inside himself.
"I don't share," he whispered, then i feel a velvet sensation, I feel a slow circular motion from that velvet touch.
Softly he speak every syllable burning.
"I don't compete." His fingers burning deeper now, and firmer... "And I don't tolerate ghosts in my marriage."
He exhaled, slow.
His voice isn't just deep—
it hits like a forbidden chant, a holy sin, a baritone designed by the universe to separate your soul from your body.
He whispers feels like your spirit just goes feral.
I shivered when his breath caressing mine.
I close my eyes, I can't stand how his tounge and his finger makes me feel, makes me found a side of me I don't even know it's mine until he touches there.
"So if you don't want anyone getting hurt… you'd better remember who you belong to cara."
"You belong to Luca Bentivoglio."
With a movement of an apex predator conquering his prey, his hard rock Italian shaft shoved slowly, into the deepest secret place of mine.
Before my consciousness drifted apart and crush by pleasure tidal wave I thought...
Luca bentivoglio? I know Luca bentivoglio...
Maybe he saw my face a little bit distracted, he then shoved his Italian stud shaft even harder and play with my nipples like he play a sacred harp.
Fuck.