Her thighs were still trembling when he pushed them wider, his broad shoulders forcing her open as he settled between her legs. She tried to twist away, tried to pull her knees back together, but he caught her hips and held her down flat against the sheets.
"Don't run from me now," Luca rasped, eyes dark, mouth inches from her slick cunt. "Not when you're dripping like this."
She gasped when his tongue dragged up her folds — slow, deliberate, gathering every drop of wetness and pulling a broken sound out of her throat. Her hands flew to his hair, half to shove him away, half to hold him there, but he only groaned into her, the vibration tearing through her core.
"Fuck—" she choked, hips jerking.
"Say it louder," he growled against her, before burying his face in her pussy, tongue fucking into her heat, lapping her wetness like he was starved. He drank from her, messy, unashamed, the sound of his mouth slurping at her dripping folds obscene in the quiet room.
Her body writhed, back arching, legs straining against his grip, but he only pinned her harder, devouring her, sucking her clit until she screamed.
"Stop, stop—" she gasped, tears spilling, thighs trembling against his ears.
He pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, his chin glistening with her slick. "You don't mean that. Taste yourself on me, Lina — you're fucking sweet."
Before she could answer, he dove back in, mouth closing over her clit while two fingers slid inside again, curling until she nearly sobbed. The wet sounds filled the air — her dripping cunt, his greedy tongue, the desperate whimpering she couldn't hold back.
She came hard against his face, pussy clenching around his fingers, flooding his mouth with slick. He groaned into her, licking her through it, refusing to let up until she was crying his name, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly.
Her whole body convulsed, shaking under him, but he kept going, lapping at her swollen folds, sucking her clit again, pulling another wave out of her before she could even catch her breath.
"Luca—please—" she sobbed, voice breaking.
He dragged his tongue slow and deep, savoring the way she shook. "That's it. Drown me, baby. This pussy's mine. Every drop, mine."
And he feasted on her again, dragging her into another shuddering climax until she was thrashing against the sheets, soaked, ruined, her voice gone to a whisper of moans.
The silence afterward was worse than the sounds they had just made.
Lina lay sprawled across black sheets that smelled of Luca — smoke, leather, faint cologne. Her skin was slick, flushed, marked. Her chest rose and fell in frantic waves, but her mind screamed for distance. For air. For something that would prove she wasn't unraveling piece by piece under him.
Her dress hung off the foot of the bed like an abandoned flag. Her hair clung damp to her temples.
She turned her face toward the ceiling, eyes burning.
This wasn't surrender.
It was control.
She had chosen this.
She had climbed on top of him, dug her nails into him, used him as much as he used her.
That's what she told herself.
That's what she had to tell herself.
Beside her, Luca hadn't closed his eyes once. He lay on his side, one arm propped under his head, watching her like he was cataloging every twitch of her muscles. His chest rose steady, unshaken, like violence and sex both came to him as naturally as breathing.
When she finally pushed herself up, gathering the slip of satin from the floor, his voice cut through the quiet.
"If you walk out—" His words were soft, but unarguable. "—you'll still feel me for days. That's what I want."
Her fingers froze on the zipper. She met his gaze in the reflection of the windowpane — sharp, dark, relentless.
"That's not how this works," she said. Her voice was steady. Colder than she felt. "You don't get to tell me what I'll feel."
"You already said it." His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile.
Heat shot through her cheeks, furious and humiliated. She spun on him. "That wasn't for you."
His laugh was low, dangerous. "And yet you drenched the bed."
Her jaw clenched. She forced herself into her dress, into her heels, every motion precise, mechanical. Armor. If she walked out upright, chin high, maybe she could believe she hadn't just handed another piece of herself to him.
She reached for the door.
His voice followed her like a hook:
"You'll come back."
She didn't answer.
Didn't look back.
But her hands were shaking.
THE NEXT DAY.
Morning came far too quickly.
The elevator ride up to the syndicate tower felt like being dragged through glass. Lina had tied her hair back in a clean knot, buttoned her blouse to her throat, and sharpened her expression into something no one could mistake for softness.
Secretary. Professional. Untouchable.
That was the part she would play today.
The lobby greeted her with the same polished marble floors and hushed reverence, but the staff's eyes flicked toward her with something new — curiosity. Whispers. They had seen Luca leave the club early, they had seen her disappear, and the math wasn't difficult.
She ignored it. She had to.
Her desk was stacked with fresh contracts, half a dozen phone calls waiting. She focused on them with surgical precision, answering briskly, typing faster than usual, each click of her keyboard a shield.
Then the glass office door opened.
Luca walked in.
Dark suit, immaculate tie, not a trace of the chaos from the night before. He moved past her without a word, without a glance, as if she were no more than furniture in his world. The heavy door shut behind him.
But the air changed.
Everyone in the office felt it — a crackle, a weight, as if the very walls knew better than to breathe too loudly.
Lina kept her eyes on the documents. Her pen didn't shake. Her signature line was flawless.
When his voice came through the intercom, it was even, cold, almost bored:
"Ms. Marquez. Bring me the Moretti file."
She stood, file in hand, heels clicking across the floor like gunfire. She opened his door, placed the file on his desk without a word, without eye contact.
But she felt it.
His gaze, locked on her like a hand around her throat.
And when she turned to leave, his voice followed her — soft enough only she could hear:
"This isn't finished."
Her steps didn't falter.
But inside, her pulse was screaming.