Page 42 of Crown of Blood

The bathroom door closes behind us, sealing us in a world of steam and marble and unstoppable desire. Luca turns the shower on, stripping off his suit jacket, his shirt, watching me the entire time. Each tattoo is revealed piece by piece—black ink sprawling across olive skin, telling stories I'm still learning to read.

The scar along his ribs catches the light. The faint bite mark on his shoulder—my mark, from our wedding night—has almost faded.

He steps into the shower fully clothed from the waist down, water darkening his trousers, plastering them to powerful thighs.

"Come here," he commands.

I should refuse. Should maintain this fragile distance I've built over the past three days. Instead, I step forward, drawn by the gravity of him.

He pulls me under the spray, my dress instantly soaked, clinging to every curve. His hands find my waist, sliding up to cup my face, tilting it toward his.

"There's my wife," he murmurs. "Still fighting. Still wanting."

"I don't want this," I whisper.

His thumb traces my lower lip. "Another lie. You're collecting them today."

Water cascades over us, turning the cream fabric of my dress translucent. Luca's eyes drop, following the revealed contours of my body beneath the sodden material.

"I've thought about your mouth for three days," he says, voice thick with need. "About the sounds you make when I'm inside you. About the way you shake when you come on my cock."

My breath hitches. My body responds to his words, nipples tightening, heat pooling between my thighs.

"We don't have time," I protest weakly.

Luca sinks to his knees before me, hands gripping my hips. Water streams over his face, catching in his long lashes, dripping from the hard line of his jaw.

"I'll make time," he growls, pushing the wet fabric of my dress up my thighs. "I missed the taste of you, little rabbit."

His fingers dig into my thighs with bruising force, spreading me open like a promise he intends to break.

The cold marble behind me bites into my spine, water cascading down my front in rivulets that trail over my nipples, already tight from the chill. Luca sinks to his knees, still in his soaked dress pants, a beast in restraint only by choice.

The sight of him below me should be vulnerable.

It’s not.

Even on his knees, this powerful man is in control. He's dominant, deliberate, devout in his destruction of me, of everyone and everything around him.

“Hold on to me,” he growls, voice coated in hungry seduction and thick steam. “And don’t you fucking look away.”

My hands tangle in his dripping hair, anchoring there as if he’s gravity and I’m already falling. He leans in slowly, dragging his tongue up the inside of my thigh with a carnal growl. His teeth follow, biting deep enough to make me jolt.

A gasp escapes. “Luca—”

“Did I say speak?”

His voice is dark silk, threaded with steel as those dark eyes snap up to mine. His breath fans over my soaked panties—ruined lace clinging to me like a last line of defense.

“My little whore will not talk. If you want to talk, then you will beg.” His thumbs hook under the drenched lace, dragging it down my legs with reverence and rage all in one motion.

Then he spreads me wider.

The way he stares at me makes me feel flayed open—body and soul. Water streams between my thighs, over the slick folds he parts with his thumbs like he’s opening a sacred text.

And finally… his mouth isonme.

Not gentle.

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