Forbidden Never Felt This Good

~ 18

0018

~ Luca ~

I didn't sleep.

Not even for a single goddamn minute.

My mind wouldn't shut off. Kept replaying the evening on an endless loop, Jean-Paul's hands on her waist, her hips moving in those slow, sensual circles, the way she'd arched against him like she was offering herself. The kiss she'd pressed to his cheek, lingering just long enough to make it more than polite.

Then the car incident.

The way she'd pressed me against the door, her body flush against mine, every soft curve molded to hard muscle. Her hands pinning my wrists. Her hips rolling against me with that same devastating rhythm she'd used on the dance floor. Her breath hot against my neck as she'd whispered exactly what I'd been thinking, feeling, wanting to do.

And then she'd stopped.

Just... stopped.

Left me hard and aching and completely f*****g wrecked while she climbed into the back seat with that cool, professional mask firmly in place.

I'd wanted to make her understand that she was mine, not Jean-Paul's, not any other man's, mine, in a way that left no room for doubt or games or professional distance.

But she was right. Damn her, she was right.

I couldn't keep f*****g her in secret and then pretending she was nothing but an assignment. Couldn't keep claiming her body while refusing to claim her publicly. It wasn't fair to her, and it was destroying me from the inside out.

But claiming her publicly meant facing Vittorio. Meant admitting I'd broken my oath, violated his trust, pursued his daughter despite knowing exactly how inappropriate it was. Meant risking everything I'd built over fifteen years of loyal service.

Asides from that, I am skeptical about how she would react if she finds out about my personal life.

Not every woman wants such burden in their lives. I am just being selfish, the thought of her with another man, any other man, made me want to commit murder.

Aria was like a drug. An addiction I couldn't shake, couldn't control, couldn't rationalize away with logic or professional obligation. Every time I touched her, I needed more. Every time she looked at me with those dark eyes full of challenge and heat, I fell deeper into something I couldn't name but knew was consuming me entirely.

I was high on her. Completely, helplessly hooked.

At seven AM, I forced myself into the shower. Let the scalding water beat against my shoulders while I tried to get my head straight. Today was the follow-up meeting with Jean-Paul, finalizing the partnership terms Aria had negotiated last night.

Professional. Business. Nothing personal.

If he so much as looked at her wrong, I was going to break every bone in his hand.

I positioned myself in the hallway outside Aria's suite at exactly seven forty-five.

She emerged at eight on the dot, and my breath caught despite everything.

She looked... radiant. Hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup that somehow made her even more striking. A dove-gray suit that was perfectly professional, high-waisted trousers, fitted blazer, cream silk blouse beneath. Nothing overtly s****l.

She looked at me, and I saw the slight hesitation in her eyes, the uncertainty about how this morning would go after last night. Then she smiled, bright, almost cheerful, and breezed past me toward the stairs.

"Good morning, Luca."

Her tone was light, friendly, utterly professional.

Like she hadn't left me hard and desperate on the side of a road eight hours ago.

"Miss Santoro," I managed, falling into step behind her.

We found Vittorio already at the breakfast table, looking frailer than he had yesterday but alert, sharp. He smiled when Aria entered, genuine warmth softening the harsh lines of his face.

"Buongiorno, figlia mia." He gestured to the chair beside him. "Come. We have much to discuss before your meeting."

I took my position by the wall, silent and watchful, as Aria kissed her father's cheek and settled into her seat. A servant immediately appeared with espresso and fresh cornetti.

"How did last night go?" Vittorio asked, spreading butter on a piece of toast with hands that trembled slightly.

"Very well, actually." Aria's voice was animated, engaged. "Jean-Paul is sharp. Really sharp. His proposal for integrating his yacht charter services with our coastal properties is brilliant. We could create package experiences, luxury hotel stay plus private yacht excursions. Target the ultra-high-net-worth demographic that's currently booking through competitors."

Vittorio's eyebrows rose. "You trust his numbers?"

"I've had our finance team review his projections. They're conservative, which I appreciate. No inflated promises. The revenue-sharing model he proposed is fair, sixty-forty in our favor, with performance escalators built in." She took a sip of espresso. "The man knows his business."

"And personally?" Vittorio's eyes were shrewd. "He seemed... interested."

Aria laughed, the sound light and unbothered. "Half the men you introduce me to are 'interested,' Father. That's not relevant to whether the business deal is sound."

"It's relevant to me. I want you settled, Aria. I want to know you'll have someone…"

"I know." She reached across and squeezed his hand gently. "But let me handle the personal side in my own time. Right now, I'm focused on the business. On building something sustainable that won't fall apart when you're..." She stopped, swallowed. "When you're not here to guide it."

Vittorio's expression softened.

"Now." Vittorio straightened as much as his weakened body allowed. "This meeting today. What's your strategy?"

"Lock down the terms. Get signatures on the partnership framework. Push for a pilot program starting in Monaco next month, his home territory, our highest-performing property. If it works there, we roll it out to Nice and Cannes by summer."

"And if he pushes back?"

"Then I walk. We don't need this partnership, Father. It would be beneficial, yes, but we're not desperate. I won't let him leverage our interest into better terms for himself." Her smile was sharp, predatory. "I learned negotiation from the best, remember?"

"Go. Make me proud. Show Jean-Paul Mercier that Santoro women are forces of nature." He glanced at me. "Luca, keep her safe."

"Always," I said quietly.

---

The conference room at the Monaco hotel was all glass and chrome, panoramic views of the harbor spread out below like a postcard. Jean-Paul was already waiting when we arrived, looking relaxed and confident in a navy suit that probably cost more than most people's cars.

"Aria." He stood immediately, his smile warm. "Thank you for meeting me again so soon. I know your schedule must be demanding."

"Jean-Paul." She shook his hand, professional but friendly. "Shall we begin? I have another commitment at noon."

A lie. Her calendar was clear until evening. But establishing time pressure was smart — kept him from dragging things out, from trying to turn this into something social.

"Of course." He gestured to the conference table where several folders were already laid out. "I've prepared the revised terms based on our discussion last night. I think you'll find everything reflects what we agreed upon."

They sat across from each other, and I took my position by the door. Close enough to intervene if necessary. Far enough to maintain the illusion that I wasn't cataloging Jean-Paul's every gesture, every look, every word.

"Walk me through it," Aria said, pulling the first folder toward her.

And she was... magnificent.

Completely focused, asking sharp questions about revenue projections, liability clauses, termination conditions.

She was so good at this. Better than she probably realized. Natural authority, strategic thinking, the perfect balance of confidence and caution.

Jean-Paul was clearly impressed, his respect growing with each pointed question she asked. But there was something else in his eyes too. Something that made my jaw clench.

Interest. Attraction. The look of a man who'd decided he wanted something and was planning how to get it.

About forty minutes in, Jean-Paul pulled up a presentation on his tablet. "I've mocked up some marketing concepts. Visual direction for the joint branding, sample package offerings, that sort of thing."

He turned the tablet toward Aria, leaning slightly closer than necessary to point out details on the screen.

"See here — we'd position it as 'The Santoro Experience.' Your hotel brand carries significant prestige. Combined with our reputation for discretion and luxury..."

The pricing structure he'd outlined didn't account for seasonal fluctuations in yacht fuel costs. A small oversight, maybe deliberate, maybe just sloppy. But it would eat into profit margins significantly during peak summer months when fuel prices spiked.

I watched Aria's face, trying to read whether she'd caught it.

But she wasn't looking at the tablet.

She was looking at me.

Our eyes met across the room, and something electric passed between us. Her expression was unreadable, but I saw the slight curve of her lips, the challenge in her gaze.

She'd caught it. I knew she had.

The question was whether she'd call him on it or let it slide.

Jean-Paul was still talking, completely oblivious. "...and if we anchor the experience around sunset departures….

"Jean-Paul," Aria said suddenly, her voice cutting through his presentation.

He stopped mid-sentence, blinking. "Yes?”