They didn't leave the apartment for two days.
The city moved on without them—horns, emails, meetings, distractions.
But inside Luca's penthouse?
Time dissolved.
And something new took its place: intention.
They weren't fucking out of hunger anymore.
They were communicating.
With hands. With mouths. With silences that said more than words ever could.
It began that morning, with Sienna curled on his lap in nothing but one of his button-downs, sipping espresso while Luca's fingers traced circles across her thigh.
"I want to try something," he said, voice low.
She looked at him, one brow arched. "You're usually the one telling. Not asking."
He kissed her knee.
"Because this isn't about control," he murmured. "It's about trust."
Her pulse quickened.
"I want you to be still," he said. "Not restrained. Not commanded. Just open. I want to play your body like music—slow. Sensual. And I want you to give me everything. Not just your pleasure. Your reactions. Your truth."
Sienna set her cup down.
Looked into his eyes.
"Then take me there."
He led her into the bedroom and didn't bind her wrists.
He laid her down on the bed like she was something holy.
Pillows beneath her hips.
Candles lit in a wide circle around the mattress.
A playlist of soft bass and smoky soul vibrating the air like a second heartbeat.
And then he began.
Not with hands.
But with his eyes.
He stood at the foot of the bed, fully clothed, while she lay there naked, thighs parted, breathing shallow.
"Look at you," he whispered. "You don't even know what you do to me."
His hands moved slow as prayer.
He started with her ankles, kissing them like promises. Up her calves. Behind her knees. Her thighs trembled with every exhale.
But still he didn't touch where she throbbed most.
He avoided it.
Made her burn with want.
"Do you know how many men take without tasting?" he said as he kissed her belly. "Do you know how many rush the part that should be savored?"
And then—finally—his mouth reached her core.
But he didn't dive in.
He breathed her in first.
"I could get drunk off this."
She was already wet. Dripping. But he didn't go straight for the clit.
He licked her folds with long, flat strokes. Spread her lips with two thumbs, studied her like a map he already knew by heart but still wanted to explore.
"Stay still," he whispered. "Feel everything."
She moaned as his tongue dipped lower. As he circled her clit without pressure. Teased the sensitive bud until she was panting, arching, desperate for more.
Then, when she was just about to beg—he stopped.
Not to torment.
But to look at her.
"Do you know what you look like right now?"
She shook her head.
He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to her hipbone.
"You look free."
And then he started again.
This time deeper.
Wetter.
He sucked on her clit, gentle and rhythmic, his fingers sliding inside—slow, curling, perfect.
He didn't push her to come.
He invited it.
Over and over.
Until she was unraveling in pieces, her body lifting from the bed, her thighs trembling, her moans softer than screams but more powerful than any word she'd ever said.
When she came, she said his name—not like a cry.
But like a confession.
"Luca…"
And he answered it with a whisper.
"I've never loved like this."
She gasped—but not from orgasm.
From the weight of that truth.
From the way it hit deeper than any thrust ever could.
And when he slid inside her moments later—slow, thick, pulsing with every inch—he held her gaze.
No dominance.
No restraint.
Just rhythm.
Just skin.
Just two people letting their walls fall together.
They came wrapped around each other, not as master and submissive.
But as equals.
As lovers.
As something neither of them had ever believed they could be without losing themselves.
And when they collapsed against the sheets, breathless and sweaty and silent, Luca ran a hand through her curls and said softly:
"You gave me everything I was afraid to ask for."
Sienna traced his lips with her fingertip.
"And you gave me everything I didn't know I needed."