LUCA
There's something humiliating about being six-foot-four, two hundred pounds of trained violence, and crouched in a fucking closet that smells like coconut shampoo and lavender tampons. My knees are cracking. My spine's threatening mutiny. The back of my neck's sticking to the drywall. But sure—let's pretend I have dignity left to lose.
I could've waited in the hallway. Parked my black McLaren outside and let the engine purr a warning. But no. That would've been sane. Respectable. Moral.
Instead, I'm here, tucked between a pile of unwashed laundry and a winter coat she hasn't worn in months, watching through the sliver of her closet door like a man who lost the plot somewhere between Afghanistan and the moment she giggled at my brother's text.
The space smells like her. Like warm linen and old perfume. Like fabric softener and faint sweat. Like a girl who lives in a place too small for the size of her laughter, but still insists on decorating every surface with scented candles and clutter.
And still with that, my cock's hard enough to leave bruises in my jeans.
She's giggling again at her phone—probably at something he said. And suddenly the air in here feels thick. Hot. Unbreathable. I don't even know what it was—just a sound. That soft little breathless thing she does when she reads something she shouldn't.
The kind of sound that sends blood to places it shouldn't be, especially when the woman making it belongs to the man I came into this world swearing I'd never become. She thinks she's in love with him. Which is rich, considering I've seen Jace struggle to spell 'entrepreneur.'
She's on the bed. Legs tucked under her. Ankles crossed like she's posing for a goddamn painting. There's a small tear in the hem of her tank top, right where the fabric stretches over her ribs. I can see the edge of her bra. Light pink. Lacy. Fucking delicate. Like she puts effort into the shit no one's supposed to see.
Jace doesn't know how to make her laugh. Not like that.
It's fake. A lie. That breathy, syrup-sweet sound she makes when she wants to believe in something she knows will hurt.
I know her tells. I've studied them.
Hell, I've memorized them.
That's what happens when you force yourself to hate someone who wears your favorite shade of lipstick and doesn't know it. When you sit across a dinner table and try not to stare at her mouth every time she eats. When you watch the way she reacts to a compliment, a threat, a lie—and try not to take any of them personally.
But here's the thing: I do take them personally.
Everything she does hits me sideways.
Like a fucking sniper round to the chest. I don't even know what it is about her that pisses me off the most.
Maybe it's the way she walks barefoot across cold tile like pain doesn't exist.
Maybe it's the way she clips her hair up with a cheap plastic claw and still somehow looks like she belongs in a royal castle.
Maybe it's the way she just fucking exists.
I shift my weight and the floorboards creak. Just slightly.
Her head doesn't turn. Of course it doesn't. She doesn't know I'm here. She thinks she's alone. Safe. In control.
That's the part I can't stop thinking about—how she always thinks she's in control. Even when she's not. Especially when she's not.
She thinks the world's something she can spin in her little palm, like the charm bracelet on her wrists or the wine glass sitting on her side-table. She has no idea she's walking blindfolded into rooms with wolves.
Or maybe she does. Maybe she likes it. Maybe she wants someone to drag her down and tear her apart, just to see what's left underneath.
I press the back of my head to the wall and let my eyes drag over her face. Her skin is flushed, not from arousal but warmth. Comfort. The soft buzz of evening light through half-open blinds. She hasn't cleaned in a while, which is unusual for her. There's a pizza box under the bed and a stack of folded clothes on the chair in the corner, always put away but not this past week. Which makes me think something is going on, and I need to get to the bottom of it.
A place like this wasn't made for someone like her. This closet wasn't made for someone like her.
I can barely move without hitting my elbow on a shelf or bumping my shoulder against some dusty plastic storage bin. My thigh's pressed to a box of old purses. My head's tilted forward just to fit. It smells like she hasn't vacuumed in a week. And yet—I've never been more still in my life.
What does that say about me? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
It's not the first time I've waited like this. Still. Silent. Breathing so slowly it doesn't register as breathing. In another life—one I don't talk about—I learned how to crouch in shadows until shadows bent around me. How to read a man's next move in the twitch of his wrist. How to hear the lie in the silence before it's spoken.
But this isn't war.
This is worse.
At least war has rules. Targets. Justifications.
This? This is watching a girl who thinks she's alone curl her fingers around her phone like it's the only thing holding her together. This is watching her lips move, making my jeans wet with the pre-cum leaking from my twitching cock. Her mouth makes shapes around words she doesn't say aloud. I don't know what she's reading. Don't know who's on the other end.
Don't care.
No—I do care.
And that's the part that makes me sick.
Because caring is weakness. Caring gets you gutted in places stitches can't reach. And yet here I am, committing psychological suicide in a walk-in fucking shoebox just to memorize the slope of her thighs under soft lighting.
I close my eyes for a second. Just one.
The scent of her clings to the inside of my skull like smoke.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck
Warm and cloying. Something I've smelled before but never this raw. This real. It hits the back of my throat, thick and heavy, and it makes my jaw twitch.
I want to blame the space. Say it's the suffocating air, the heat, the fact that I haven't eaten since breakfast. But no.
It's her.
Suddenly, Jace steps in, the door groaning shut behind him, and the room shifts. The cluttered apartment suddenly feels smaller—tighter, more urgent. He's all swagger and sloppy charm, like a kid who thinks he's won the lottery but hasn't realized the tax yet. He smells like cheap cologne and sweat.
Sienna's smile falters the second he crosses the threshold, eyes sharp enough to cut glass, but she hides it well. It's the kind of smile that says, I'm not scared of you, even if every inch of her body is wired tight with tension.
"Late again," she says, voice soft but sharp. "You're really killing that whole 'reliable boyfriend' thing."
Jace snorts, shrugging off his jacket like it's an inconvenience rather than a statement. "Traffic was a nightmare. Not my fault you've got the patience of a caffeinated cat."
She bites back a retort, lips pressing thin, and the room fills with static silence for a second longer than comfortable. You can almost see the friction burning between them like invisible sparks.
"Don't start," she warns, shifting her weight on the bed, fingers brushing over her phone as if it's the only thing keeping her steady.
But Jace isn't done. "Maybe if you weren't always glued to that damn thing, you'd notice I'm doing my best." Her eyes narrow. "Your best doesn't cut it."
The fight is slow, like a slow burn fuse winding down to a flash of heat. I'm crouched here, behind a wooden door that's too thin to block the noise, and I can taste every word in the stale air. They're circling each other like predators, but neither is stupid enough to strike first.
Then—like clockwork—he steps forward, grabbing the back of her neck in a rough, almost careless way. The fight dies in her eyes, replaced by a flicker of something darker. She doesn't resist.
"Enough talk," he mutters, voice low, but there's no tenderness. He pulls her in hard, and she melts against him. The air thickens, heat turning into something more combustible. I'm watching every inch of her body as he devours her mouth with his. Fingers tangled in her hair, hands sliding down curves he's no doubt memorized but will never truly understand.
I'm supposed to hate this.
But the twist in my gut tells me otherwise.
She's beneath him, on her knees now, eyes glazed over in that way that screams 'waiting for the storm to break.' His hands explore like an inexperienced teenage boy desperate to own every inch before it slips away. I can see the tension coil in her neck, the faint tremble in her fingers. Jace is good at pretending, but not at giving.
I shift slightly, cramped as hell, one hand ghosting over the zipper on my jeans before I push it down. The heat in my body doesn't care about decency or distance. It only cares about watching her. Feeling.
I take my cock out, my pants rough against my skin as it slides free, already hardening, twitching like it's alive, fueled by the scent of her that's seeped into every corner of this cramped closet. It's her. The warmth that curls tight in my gut, the weight of her presence thick enough to choke on.
My eyes don't leave her body, not once.
Jace's hands are clumsy, impatient. He's all rough grabs and sudden pulls, no finesse, no understanding. She's on her knees, hair falling wild around her face, lips parted like she's caught between protest and surrender. Her tits shift beneath his fingers, the way they bounce too hard and then sag—like she wants something rougher, something slow.
But Jace's not that guy. He's soft and fast, pounding into her like he's got something to prove.
Her ass moves with every slap of his hips—tight, round, begging for touch that's not coming. I can see her back arching, shoulders tense, fingers digging into the sheets, nails white with need. Her moans are sharp, short, as if she's trying to convince herself it's enough.
Jace grunts, voice low and harsh, barely bothering to whisper, "You like that, baby? You want more?"
Her answer is a breathless moan, but I see the flicker behind her eyes—disappointment.
She's not getting what she needs. Her nipples twitch under his hands, begging for teeth, for a rougher grip, for fingers that know how to play with pain and pleasure. But he just keeps thrusting, pleasing himself.
The room fills with sounds—skin against skin, the slap of flesh, ragged breathing, and the wet, desperate noises she can't hold back. I can almost taste the tension, the way it curls through the air like smoke.
I shift in the closet, cramped and too tall for this space, the wooden door pressing against my shoulder. My cock twitches again, harder and soaking in pre-cum now, aching with the ache of wanting to be near her, to touch her right, the way she deserves.
Jace grunts again, voice rougher, breath catching. "Fuck, you feel so good." I want to fucking punch him in the face.
She bites her lip, trying to stay quiet, but I hear the sharp inhale, the tiny cry that slips free when his hand slides up her thigh and he pulls her closer, faster.
I watch her tits bounce, nipples pebbled and begging, the way her body convulses just out of reach of real pleasure. And it's torture. The way her hips jerk, searching for something he doesn't give, the tilt of her head, eyes squeezed shut like she's trying to disappear.
"Jace, please..." she breathes, voice raw.
He just laughs, low and cruel. "Shh. You'll get what I give you."
But she doesn't. Never will.
I'm here. Watching. Feeling everything she doesn't get.
My hand moves slow at first, fingers curling tight around the thick hardness. I stroke, painfully slow, like I'm trying to burn the image of her into my skin, into my fucking skull—every slick sound, every stuttered breath, every shudder from that pretty mouth she keeps biting like she's trying to stay quiet for him.
The head of my cock's already leaking, slick and swollen, dripping into my fist. My balls are tight, aching, straining high, so full I could snap. I rub my thumb under the crown, smear the precome over the slit just to feel the sting. The warm, dirty slide of my palm is nothing compared to what she needs—what I need—but fuck, it's all I've got.
Jace is still rutting into her like a goddamn jackhammer. His mouth's on her throat, tongue too rough, yet not giving the plain she craves.
Idiot. She's twisting under him, body crying for more. Her legs spread wider like she's still giving him the chance to fix it—touch me, you fucking idiot—but all he does is slap her ass and grunt louder.
Her tits bounce with every thrust, nipples stiff and flushed, just begging for someone to suck them, roll them, bite down till she cries. But no—Jace just grabs, squeezes like she's something to own, not someone to worship.
And fuck, her cunt's glistening. I see it every time his hips pull back. That slick little fold swallowing him up, clenching around nothing, desperate and untouched. She's soaked. Not for him. No. That drip down her thigh, that twitch in her belly, it's for the fantasy in her head—not the body on top of her.
She moans again, breathless and cracked, more pain than pleasure. My cock twitches in my hand, angry, throbbing. I stroke faster now, wrist jerking tight, rough. Every breath is shallow. Every muscle's locked. My balls pull up harder, tighter. I can feel the come thickening, heat building low and mean.
She arches, back curling like she's begging for someone to press down on that tight little clit and make her scream. But he doesn't. He fucking misses it. Again. And again.
"Fuck," Jace grunts, louder now, lost in himself. "Fucking tight—"
No shit, asshole. You've done nothing for her and she's still letting you in.
She's so close to breaking. I can see it in her face—the frustration, the ache, the need. Her hips grind upward like she's chasing friction, chasing something real. Her thighs shake with it. Her toes curl.
My fist flies now, wet, furious strokes as the pressure climbs my spine. I imagine it's my cock dragging across her folds, slick with her arousal, not this bullshit jackrabbit pounding. I imagine sinking into her slow—deep. Making her feel every fucking inch of me stretch her out, ruin her from the inside.
My mouth would be on her tits, sucking till she whimpers. My hands on her thighs, pinning her down. I'd play her like a fucking instrument till she sobbed for it.
Please, Luca. Please, I'm gonna come.
My jaw tightens. Muscles lock. Heat explodes down my spine as I spill into my hand, thick and hot, a filthy mess soaking my skin and the inside of this goddamn closet. My cock throbs, jerking helplessly against my grip as I pant through clenched teeth, vision blurring on the shape of her, still moaning, still wanting.
She's not done. Not even close. And he won't get her there.
She's wet and empty. He's still inside her, still thrusting. But she's starving.
And I hate that I'm the only one who sees it.