Luca's penthouse was wrapped in city light and silence, the kind that amplified everything unsaid.
Naomi stepped inside, her coat clutched tightly. He didn't move to touch her.
"I should walk away," she said softly, standing in the center of his world—leather, glass, steel. "Whatever this is… it's already costing me."
Luca watched her like a man unraveling. "I know. I should let you."
She dropped her coat. Beneath it, she wore a black blouse that clung to her curves, slacks that hugged her hips, polished but breathlessly close to undone.
"But you won't," she said, stepping closer.
"No," he admitted. "I can't."
The tension was a cord between them—stretched tight for weeks, now straining past the point of return. She didn't rush. Neither did he. She wanted the ache of it.
Naomi reached for his shirt, fingers brushing the buttons slowly, one by one. His breath hitched as she undid each with maddening precision.
When her hands paused at his chest, she looked up. "I want this. But I don't want to be handled."
"You won't be," he murmured. "You'll be worshipped."
He kissed her then—deep, slow, reverent. Like every inch of her mattered. His hands never rushed. They explored. Palmed her waist, skimmed her ribs, cradled her jaw. When she sighed into his mouth, he groaned low, like restraint cost him everything.
She peeled away her blouse. His gaze didn't devour—it revered.
Their mouths moved with the slow certainty of discovery. Her bra fell away, his hands memorizing every curve, every soft intake of breath. She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath it.
He scooped her into his arms. "Bedroom," he whispered against her temple.
"No." Her voice was steady. "Here. Now."
He laid her gently on the velvet couch, their clothes a scattered trail of decisions they couldn't take back. The city watched from the windows, but they didn't hide.
Naomi felt everything. His lips at her throat. His fingers mapping her, teasing but never demanding. Her hips arched toward his touch with a moan she hadn't known she could make.
When he finally slid into her, she gasped—half relief, half bliss. He moved with reverence, slow and steady, building a rhythm that wasn't just physical—it was intimate. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body shuddering under his, until pleasure washed over her like a tide too vast to contain.
After, they lay in silence, limbs tangled, breath still uneven.
Naomi whispered, "What happens now?"
Luca brushed his lips to her shoulder. "Now, we face the fire."
And they would.
Because nothing about them was safe.
But it was real.