The Romano Bride

Chapter 8

His breath brushed my cheek, warm and unsteady. I didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was the gravity between us — the kind that had been pulling at my ribs since the moment he walked back into my life. All I knew was that one second I was sitting stiffly on his lap, trying to pretend I wasn’t trembling… …and the next, his mouth was on mine. Not gentle. Not tentative. Fierce. Like he’d been starving for ten years and finally found something worth breaking for.

A sound escaped me — soft, involuntary — and that was all it took. His hand slid up my spine, fingers splaying between my shoulder blades, pulling me closer until my chest pressed against his. My hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him deeper into the kiss, anger and longing and memory colliding in a way that made my pulse stutter. I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t. I leaned back instead, breathless, letting my spine curve against him, my head tipping to the side as his mouth trailed along my jaw, slow and devastating. His breath was hot against my skin, his lips brushing the edge of my pulse.

“Isabella…” he murmured, voice rough, like he was fighting himself.

His hands slid down — one settling at my waist, the other tracing the line of my thigh. Not grabbing. Not forcing. Just… touching. Reverent. Like he was relearning me with his palms. My breath hitched. His thumb stroked the inside of my thigh, slow enough to make my stomach twist, careful enough to make my chest ache. Heat pooled low in my belly, sharp and dizzying.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my neck.

I didn’t. I turned my face toward him, lips brushing his cheek, and kissed him again — harder this time, desperate in a way I didn’t want to name. His hand tightened on my thigh, his breath catching like I’d knocked the air out of him. He kissed me back like he was unraveling. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the night he disappeared. His other hand slid up, cupping the side of my neck, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth as if he needed to feel the shape of my breath. I arched into him, my back pressed to his chest, his heartbeat thundering against my spine.

“Isabella,” he breathed, forehead resting against my temple. “You’re going to ruin me.”

I almost laughed — breathless, shaky — because he didn’t understand. He was already ruined. And so was I. His lips found mine again, slower this time, deeper, like he wanted to memorize the taste. His fingers traced circles on my thigh, each one sending a shiver up my spine. I felt his breath hitch when I shifted in his lap, my hands sliding up to his shoulders for balance. He groaned — quiet, low, like he was trying to swallow it. The sound went straight through me.

“Adrian…” I whispered, not sure if it was a warning or a plea.

His hand stilled on my thigh. He pulled back just enough to look at me — really look at me — his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles.

“If we keep going,” he said, voice barely steady, “I won’t be able to stop.”

My pulse hammered. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t pull away. And that silence — that dangerous, trembling silence — was its own kind of answer. His jaw clenched, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. His hand slid up from my thigh to my waist, gripping gently, grounding himself.

“Isabella,” he whispered, forehead pressing to my cheek, “tell me what you want.”

I opened my mouth—

—and the front door clicked. A soft, unmistakable sound. We froze. Adrian’s entire body went rigid beneath me, every muscle coiled, every instinct snapping to attention. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Coming closer. Adrian’s hand slid from my waist to my hip, steadying me as he shifted — protective, lethal, the softness gone in an instant.

The heat between us temporarily evaporated, replaced by something colder. Sharper. Because whoever had just entered the penthouse… …wasn’t supposed to be there.

Then—

“Bella?”

Sophia’s voice.

I froze. Adrian froze. The universe froze.

The door swung open, and there she was — my little sister in an oversized sweater, hair in a messy bun, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and a spare key dangling from her fingers. Her eyes widened. At me. On Adrian’s lap. His hands on my waist. My breathless hair. His flushed jaw. The candlelit table set for two.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Um. Am I… interrupting something?”

Heat shot up my neck so fast I thought I might combust. I scrambled off Adrian’s lap so quickly I nearly tripped over my own feet. He caught my elbow on instinct, steadying me, but the touch only made my face burn hotter.

“No!” I blurted. “No, you’re not interrupting anything. Nothing was happening. Absolutely nothing.”

Sophia’s smile said she didn’t believe a single word. Adrian, infuriatingly, didn’t move from the chair. He just sat there, breathing slow, jaw tight, eyes still dark with the remnants of what almost happened. He looked like a man who’d been dragged out of a dream mid-kiss.

Sophia glanced between us, her grin widening. “Right. Nothing. Totally believable.”

I shot her a glare that promised death. She ignored it.

“I brought pajamas,” she said, lifting her duffel bag. “I thought we could have a sleepover. Like old times.”

My heart softened instantly. “Soph…”

“I know you’re stressed,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

I swallowed hard. Adrian stood then — slowly, controlled — and Sophia’s smile faltered. She remembered who he was now. The Don. The man who could silence a room with a glance. But she also remembered the stories I’d told her when we were younger — about the boy who’d walked me home, who’d given me his jacket, who’d kissed me under the bleachers like I was something precious.

She straightened her shoulders. “Hi, Adrian,” she said, voice small but brave.

He nodded once. “Sophia.”

“You, um… cooked dinner?” she asked, glancing at the table.

“Yes,” he said.

“For Isabella?”

“Yes.”

Sophia’s smile returned, softer this time. “She likes when people cook for her.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked to me — a brief, unreadable glance that made my stomach twist. “I know,” he said quietly.

Sophia beamed. I wanted to sink into the floor.

“Anyway,” she said, stepping further inside, “I can go to the guest room and pretend I didn’t walk in on—”

“Nothing,” I snapped.

“—whatever that was,” she finished, unbothered.

Adrian’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. But close.

Sophia dropped her bag by the couch. “I’ll just… get settled. You two can finish your… dinner.”

She disappeared down the hall, humming.

The moment she was out of sight, I exhaled so hard my lungs hurt. Adrian watched me, arms crossed now, heat still simmering beneath the surface.

“You’re relieved,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re disappointed,” he added.

I glared. “No.”

He stepped closer — not touching, but close enough that the air tightened again. “You kissed me back.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

I swallowed.

He leaned in, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Your sister saved you. But she didn’t save me.”

My breath caught.

He brushed past me, heading toward the kitchen, his voice a quiet promise over his shoulder. “This isn’t over.”

And God help me, I knew he was right.