The morning came soft and slow, filtered through sheer white curtains billowing like breath. Sienna lay wrapped in Luca's arms, her cheek against his chest, their bodies still bare beneath the linen sheets.
But it wasn't the sleep that lingered.
It was the way he touched her—like prayer.
Not hurried. Not greedy.
He ran his fingers across her shoulder like he was memorizing her skin. His lips brushed the crown of her head, and every now and then, she felt his chest rise with something close to a sigh.
She whispered into his skin, "Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Still."
He kissed her forehead. "No. Only with you."
Her heart pulled.
They didn't leave the bed until afternoon. He brought her figs and honey and soft bread torn apart by hand. She fed him with her fingers. He licked them clean.
No words.
Just eyes.
Hands.
Tension smoldering.
By the time the sun began to sink again, it wasn't hunger that drew them back into each other.
It was craving.
But this time, Luca didn't command.
He invited.
He brought her to the floor in front of the fire, lit dozens of candles until the villa glowed like an ancient temple, and laid her on a blanket so soft it felt like silk warmed by memory.
Sienna watched him from her back—spread, waiting—as he poured warm oil into his palm.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispered.
He straddled her hips. "Ruining you beautifully."
He began with her shoulders—massaging oil into every knot, every line of tension. His fingers pressed deep, then soothed. He worked his way down her arms, then across her ribs, down her hips.
Everywhere.
Except where she needed him most.
She writhed. "Luca—"
He leaned down, lips brushing hers.
"Tonight is about slowness. Tonight, I don't fuck you. I worship you."
And he did.
He spent an hour learning her body like a language he refused to mispronounce. He kissed her palms. The arch of her foot. He sucked each toe, then bit gently behind her knee just to hear her gasp.
He took his time teasing her nipples—pinching, sucking, then cooling them with his breath until they were hard and aching.
By the time his mouth reached the curve of her belly, she was trembling.
Dripping.
Desperate.
And when his lips finally met her center, she nearly wept.
He licked her softly at first. Reverent. Then with deep, wet strokes that made her spine curl. She reached for his head, needing something to ground her, but he caught her hands.
"No," he murmured. "Let go. Let me do all the work."
She dropped back with a moan, thighs spreading wider, surrendering completely.
He devoured her slowly—his tongue teasing her clit while two fingers slid inside, curling deep, then holding still while his mouth built her rhythm.
She came once.
Then again.
But he didn't stop. Didn't move.
Only deepened.
By the third orgasm, her body was shaking violently, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes.
And then he entered her.
No rush.
Just the slowest, most intimate thrust of her life. Like he wanted her to feel every inch. Like he wanted her to remember him forever.
He rocked into her, chest to chest, mouth on her jaw.
"You feel like heaven," he whispered.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him deep.
"Don't stop," she begged.
"Never," he said. "I want this. You. Not just like this. Always."
The words hit her harder than the orgasm.
She came with a sob, pulling him deeper, taking all of him as he spilled inside her with a moan that sounded like surrender.
They collapsed together—sweaty, shaking, overwhelmed.
And then, in the silence, he kissed her temple and whispered the one thing she hadn't expected from a man like Luca.
"I've never let anyone in like this."
Sienna pressed her lips to his chest, over his heart.
"You just did."