Forbidden Never Felt This Good

~ 13

0013

~ Aria ~

I woke up sore.

Not the pleasant, lingering ache of a good workout, but the deep, bone-deep soreness that came from being bent into impossible positions and f****d with relentless intensity. My thighs protested when I shifted in bed. My hips felt bruised. And there was a tenderness between my legs that made me wince as I sat up.

Damn Luca.

Damn him and his jealous possessiveness and the way he'd taken me in that car like he was staking a permanent claim. Damn him for the bite marks on my neck that I'd have to cover with makeup. Damn him for the fingerprint bruises on my thighs that would take days to fade.

And damn me for loving every second of it.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to gather myself. This couldn't keep happening. This cycle of him f*****g me senseless and then pretending the next day like nothing had occurred. Like we were just bodyguard and assignment. Like he hadn't been inside me, making me scream his name, marking me as his.

Well, not today.

Today was going to be different. Today, I was going to ignore him completely. He wanted to play professional? Fine. I could play that game better than he could. He was my bodyguard, nothing more, nothing less, and I was going to treat him exactly as such.

Let him see how it felt to be dismissed. To be treated like hired help. To watch me go about my day without so much as acknowledging the way he'd made me come apart last night.

I dragged myself out of bed, every movement a reminder of his hands, his mouth, his c**k. The hot shower helped somewhat, though the water stinging against the bite marks on my shoulders made me suck in sharp breaths. I took my time getting ready, a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, minimal jewelry, my hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Professional. Untouchable.

Armored.

By the time I made my way downstairs to the breakfast room, I'd constructed my walls high and strong. I could do this. I could sit through breakfast, make polite conversation with my father, and completely ignore Luca's presence.

My father was already at the table, looking gaunt in the morning light. The disease was eating away at him, carving hollows in his cheeks, dimming the fierce vitality that had once made him so formidable. But his eyes were still sharp as they tracked my entrance.

"Buongiorno, figlia mia,” he greeted, setting down his espresso.

"Good morning, Father." I kissed his cheek, noting how papery his skin felt, before taking my seat across from him.

A servant appeared immediately, pouring me coffee and setting out a selection of pastries, fruit, and cheese. I reached for a cornetto, my stomach protesting even though I knew I needed to eat.

"I presume the date didn't go well again?" my father asked, his tone carefully neutral as he buttered a piece of toast.

I kept my expression pleasant, diplomatic. "Lorenzo was charming. Very intelligent. His company does impressive work in logistics software."

"But?"

"But nothing, Father. It was a pleasant evening." I took a sip of coffee, the bitter warmth steadying me. "We discussed a potential business partnership, actually. His software could optimize our hotel booking systems."

My father's eyebrow rose slightly. "A business partnership. How... practical."

"I am here to run your businesses, aren't I? That's what you wanted."

"I want you to have a partner, Aria. Someone who can stand beside you when I'm gone. The business is important, yes, but…"

The door opened, cutting off whatever lecture he'd been building toward.

Luca walked in, and despite my determination to ignore him, my body responded instantly. My pulse quickened. Heat pooled low in my belly. Every nerve ending seemed to wake up and take notice.

He looked immaculate, as always. Dark suit perfectly tailored, white shirt crisp, not a hair out of place. You'd never know that less than twelve hours ago he'd been buried inside me, grunting my name like a prayer and a curse.

"Buongiorno, Don Santoro. Miss Santoro." His voice was perfectly professional, his eyes barely grazing over me before focusing on my father.

I didn't respond. Didn't even look at him. Just reached for the jam with studied indifference, as if a piece of furniture had spoken.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the slight tension that entered his shoulders.

Good.

"Luca, sit. Have you eaten?" my father asked.

"I have, thank you. But I'll join you for coffee."

He took the chair at the end of the table, close enough to be part of the conversation, far enough to maintain his position as employee rather than family. I focused intently on spreading jam on my cornetto, refusing to acknowledge him.

"Actually, Luca, your timing is perfect," my father said, nodding as a servant poured Luca's espresso. "There's someone I'd like Aria to meet tonight. An investor from Monaco. Jean-Paul Mercier. He's interested in expanding his portfolio into luxury hospitality."

I felt my jaw tighten. Here we go again.

"Father—"

"It's not a date," he interrupted, though the slight smile tugging at his lips suggested he knew exactly what I was thinking. "Purely professional. He's looking to invest significant capital, and I thought you should be the one to pitch him on the hotels."

"Purely professional," I repeated flatly. "At seven PM. Which is dinner time."

"Business dinners are common, Aria."

"And if the shoe fits?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.

My father set down his coffee cup with deliberate care. "You need to get married. I want to see you settled before I die. Is that so terrible? Wanting my daughter to have someone to support her, to stand with her when she inherits an empire?"

The familiar argument. The familiar guilt. I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the fear beneath the autocratic demand. He was dying, and he was terrified of leaving me alone in this world he'd built.

But that didn't mean I was going to let him auction me off to the highest bidder.

"I don't need a husband to run your businesses," I said quietly. "You raised me to be strong enough on my own."

"Strength isn't the same as not being alone." His hand shook slightly as he reached for his espresso. "I learned that too late. Don't make my mistakes."

The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. This was new territory—my father admitting to mistakes, to regrets. The cancer was stripping away his armor, leaving the man beneath exposed.

I glanced at Luca finally, unable to help myself. He sat perfectly still, his face an expressionless mask, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his espresso cup. His jaw was tight, that telltale muscle ticking.

He was pissed.

Of course he was. Another date. Another man who would try to touch me, charm me, win me over. Another evening where he'd have to stand by and watch while his control frayed thread by thread.

I felt a dark satisfaction curl through me.

Let him be angry. Let him see what it felt like to have no control, no say, to be forced to simply observe while I did what I wanted.

"Seven PM, you said?" I asked my father, my voice light.

"Yes. At La Mer Bleu. I've already made the reservation."

"Then I'll be there. Purely professional, of course."

"Of course," my father agreed, but there was something knowing in his eyes.

I finished my cornetto in silence, sipped my coffee, and carefully avoided looking at Luca again. But I could feel his stare like a physical weight, could sense the leashed violence in him, the way he was probably imagining all the ways he could sabotage this meeting.

But not this time.

This time, I had a plan. And Luca Moretti was going to learn that he didn't control me, no matter how many times he made me come, no matter how many marks he left on my skin.

I was Vittorio Santoro's daughter. And I bowed to no one.

Not even the man who'd ruined me for anyone else.