Page 34 of Dario DeLuca

“Oh. Oh, mmm,” Mia moans, pulling my attention back to the phone.

Her body buckles as she finds her release, and I follow behind her, my own overtaking me. Together, we come, time dilated, and the world narrows to a singular point of exquisite intensity.

And when the high comes down, Mia lies in bed, her chest heaving to a rhythm similar to mine as her body calms. Everything is still again, the silences suddenly deafening. In the aftermath, I watch her through the cold eye of the camera, a voyeur to this intimate tableau.

FOURTEEN

MIA

The sun filtersthrough the sheer curtains, casting a diluted glow across the hardwood floors of my room. We didn’t return to the estate until a few hours ago, and I spent the morning trying not to think about last night.

Bored within my confinement, I move with purpose, fluffing pillows and straightening picture frames, each task a pitiful attempt to expel the memories threatening to consume me.

The ones of him last night as we danced—how his scent held me captive, or his moves swayed me in perfect rhythm, or even when my version of self-love found him invading those moments. The way his lips felt against mine for our fake kiss that was anything but sparked me wanting even more of him.

My mind whirls, but my hands steadily clean, organize, and rearrange. These mundane acts are my temporary balm, a weak barricade against the chaos Dario DeLuca has brought into my world.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. My usually careful hairstyle is now a tousled mane, evidence of restless fingers searching for solace. I look away, unable to confront the flushed cheeks that betray the heat his name kindles within me.

With a huff, I abandon the battle with the past and decide to wage a new war—one where my body leads and my mind hopefully follows suit, subdued. After brushing my hair back into a ponytail, I change into my workout clothes and head to a place for release.

The gym's sterile scent greets me, antiseptic mingling with the subtle musk of citrus fragrance. I step onto the treadmill, the rhythmic thud of my sneakers grounding me. I increase the pace, pushing myself harder.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him—Dario—a specter in the doorway. His presence is a gravitational pull I'm desperate to escape, yet circles helplessly. His stillness contradicts my frantic motion. His dark eyes lock on me with an intensity that feels both invasive and intimate. I won't let him unravel me. Not here. Not now.

He goes to the weight bench, his muscles flexing as he gets into position. With each pump of iron, I watch, almost fixated on his strength. Then I’m reminded of how easily he threw my size eighteen frame over his shoulder.

Sweat gathers on his brow, tracing lines down the landscape of his body, mapping the contours of his broad shoulders and abs. His soft grunts beckon to my core as I recall myself-caresession last night. Erasing those thoughts, I appeal to him one last time.

Though he pretends to focus on his workout, there's no mistaking the watchful predator in him, tracking my every step, every rise and fall of my chest.

The weights clink as he sets them down, and I seize the moment—the lull in the noise of clashing wills. My breath steadies, and I approach him, the words teetering on the tip of my tongue.

“Hey, have you given any more thought about replacing my phone? I know you have your team posting on my blog and othersocials, and while I am appreciative, I really think I should get back to some form of normalcy. After all, you said there isn’t any more threat.”

He looks up with a semblance of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. There’s no kindness there but something far more complex, a tapestry woven with threads of curiosity and raw, unspoken promises.

“True, but we still need to be cautious.” He returns to his workout, not giving me any more attention.

"Dario." His name spills from my mouth, loud and demanding. My gaze locks with his, wanting an answer. The air is filled with the musk of exertion that clings to us both.

But Dario's response slices through the air, thick with implication. "You know, I like the sound of my name on your lips better when you're coming. It's sexier."

Heat climbs my neck, painting my cheeks in shameful crimson. My heart stutters, caught between anger and something far more primitive. His words coil around me, serpentine and slick.

"What?" My voice cracks; it's a feeble echo of outrage, an attempt to regain footing on this slippery slope he's laid out before me.

"Yeah. It's almost as sexy as watching you rub your clit through your shorts. Or how you play with your nipples as you arch your back when you reach your peak. Tell me, Bella, do you rub your finger between those slick folds for lube? Let me know if you need one of those rose things or other devices to help.”

The world narrows to the two of us, his voice a velvet darkness caressing my skin. But then, the realization hits, cold and unwelcome.

He watched.

“I hate you.”

Dario sits up. His eyes burn into mine, reflecting a challenge, a dare to look away. But I can't. I won't.

"Really? You’re no walk in the park yourself. You’re spoiled, entitled, and bratty. Probably the most difficult woman I’ve ever met in my life."

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