CHAPTER FIFTEEN
714 Words
IRIS
The creeping sun hurt my eyes, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my body.
I lay still, every muscle sore, every inch of me humming with the memory of everything that happened—his hands, his mouth, his voice breaking me apart again and again until I couldn’t remember my own name, only his.
Luca.
Heat flushed through me even now, curled in his arms, his chest rising steady under my cheek. He looked so peaceful in sleep, unlike the man who had bent me to his will earlier and it made something inside me ache, something I didn’t want to name.
I couldn’t stay here, tangled in him, letting myself drown. I needed to… do something. Something for him.
So when I slipped from the sheets, I reached for the first thing within my grasp—his shirt from the night before. The fabric was soft and smelled like him, and when I buttoned it, the hem barely skimmed the tops of my thighs. My cheeks burned, but I wore it anyway. It was stupid, but it made me feel closer to him.
After a quick shower that did little to ease my soreness, I crept toward the kitchen. I’d seen enough movies—breakfast in bed seemed like a good idea. A thank you, even if I couldn’t put words to why I wanted to thank him.
But cooking was… not my strength.
The eggs stuck. The toast burned. The pan smoked until I coughed, waving the dishcloth around like an i***t. By the time Luca walked in, I was on the verge of tears, staring at a blackened mess that barely resembled food.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes sharp with sleep and amusement.
“Dolcezza bambina,” he said softly, “you look like you’re about to set my kitchen on fire.”
I spun, mortified. “I-I just wanted to—” My voice cracked. “I wanted to do something for you.”
Tears stung my eyes before I could stop them.
In two strides, he was there, cupping my face, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Shh.” His voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “Don’t cry over this. I don’t need you to prove anything.”
“But I ruined it—”
“Then I’ll fix it.”
Before I could argue, he nudged me to sit on the counter while he took over. I watched in stunned silence as he moved with practiced ease—cracking eggs, flipping them perfectly, seasoning with a confidence that made me realize this wasn’t his first time in a kitchen.
When he set a plate in front of me, I blinked. “You… can cook?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You sound surprised.
“I am,” I admitted, tasting the food. My eyes widened at the first bite. “It’s… incredible.
“Of course it is,” he said smugly, watching me eat like I was his favorite show.
But his gaze shifted, darkening, and I realized why.
Because when I leaned forward for another bite, his shirt rode higher. The hem barely covered me, and nothing else hid the fact that I was completely bare underneath.
Luca’s eyes lingered on my thighs, on the way the shirt barely skimmed the curve of my ass as I shifted on the counter.
His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”
Heat exploded across my cheeks. “I—I…”
He stepped between my legs, his hands gripping the counter on either side of me, caging me in. His mouth brushed my ear, his breath hot.
“You’re trying to kill me, dolcezza,” he growled. “Walking around my house in nothing but my shirt, cooking for me like you belong here…” His hand slid along my bare thigh, slow, deliberate. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
My breath caught, my fork clattering onto the plate as his lips brushed my jaw, then lower.
The food was forgotten. The heat between us wasn’t.
And when his mouth claimed mine again, I knew breakfast was only the beginning
- Writer
