Two nights since the yacht party.
Luca sat in his library at the estate,
closing out reports.
The second stimulant deal with Europe's elite—done.
All that was left was widening the supply net.
On the desk—
a wine bottle with Monaco Harbor etched on the label.
The glass empty.
The air still carried salt and champagne.
He heard her before the door opened—
heels tapping the marble, quick and sharp.
Bianca.
She came in hard, tossed her phone onto the desk.
Images rolled—
Monaco's upper crust tangled together,
gowns half-off, eyes glazed from Luca's product.
Her voice trembled low.
"My friend was there. He saw what your drug does."
Luca shut the file.
Didn't look up.
"So?"
Her mouth tightened.
"Don't treat me like a kid."
She gripped his jaw, nails against his skin.
His eyes traveled, slow and cool.
"If you're burning up, call your friend over."
"I want you. Not some soft boy my age."
The robe slid to the floor—
silver lingerie flashing under the firelight.
She climbed into his lap.
Luca didn't smile.
Didn't flinch.
Just caught her by the waist,
pulling her in until her ribs met his chest
and her breath broke in a thin gasp.
He pushed in—deep, slow—
letting her feel the full length of it.
The leather chair groaned under their weight.
Firelight licked along the walls,
making their shadows breathe
and stretch over the bookshelves.
A book slid from the desk,
spine snapping against the floor.
His mouth brushed her ear.
"You know you're playing a dangerous game."
Her only answer was a kiss—
open, heat-slick—
her fingers already fumbling at his zipper.
The moment cracked open.
It didn't rush.
It moved like a tide—
slow, certain, swallowing the room whole.
Her hands gripped at his shirt,
pulling, tearing a button loose.
His palm slid up her spine,
feeling each vertebra like the steps of a climb.
The scent of her hair—
perfume and sweat—
mixed with the char of the fire.
Her breath hitched each time he sank deeper.
A low sound broke in her throat when he shifted,
angling to press harder against the place that made her tremble.
The desk behind her rattled when his pace found its rhythm.
Papers slipped to the carpet, curling in the heat.
The wine bottle tipped and rolled,
red bleeding into the rug in slow, dark blooms.
Her nails bit into his shoulders,
and he liked the sting.
The fire guttered with each thrust,
throwing them in and out of shadow.
"Look at me,"
he ordered, voice low.
She did—eyes wide, wet, glassy with heat.
That look nearly undid him.
Her thighs locked tight around his hips,
holding him exactly where she needed him.
He drove harder, the air thick with the slap of skin,
the leather chair's protest,
the sound of her breathing climbing higher.
The tension coiled, merciless.
He felt her crest before she made a sound—
her body clamping around him, shuddering.
Her back arched, a sharp cry muffled into his shoulder.
Luca didn't let up—
grinding through her release,
riding the rhythm until his own hit,
sharp and deep, pulling a grunt from his throat.
The fire steadied.
Only their ragged breathing filled the room.
She stayed pressed against him,
forehead to his shoulder,
the chair creaking in the quiet.
Luca ran a hand through her hair and said, flat as glass,
"Next time… lock the door first."