Page 27 of Luca
"Polite doesn't look like that," he says. "Polite doesn't savor." He tips the glass again, this time letting the whiskey find the hollow of my stomach. The chill bites before his hand spreads there, warm, anchoring me in place.
"You're imagining things," I whisper.
He laughs against my skin, a dangerous, intimate sound. "I don't imagine. I watch. And I never forget."
His mouth follows the path upward again, slow and deliberate, tasting every place the whiskey touched. When he reaches my throat, he pauses, holding my chin in his hand so I can't look away.
"You wear sweetness like perfume," he says, the words brushing against my cheek. "But underneath there's something richer."
The kiss that follows is slower, but no less consuming. It's as if he's trying to strip away every layer of polite Sofia until he finds what's underneath. I sense it in the way his tongue traces the shape of my lower lip.
When he breaks the kiss, his breath is warm at my ear. "Tell me something true."
I blink at him, the question slicing straight through the haze. "What do you mean?"
"Something you haven't told me before," he says. "A secret only I get to know."
He doesn't move, doesn't blink, just waits and I realize this is more than a game now. This is him deciding whether to believe in the woman standing in front of him, or dismantle her piece by piece until he does.
I make my smile soft, almost hesitant, the way Sofia's would be. But inside, I weigh which truth will keep me alive in this room.
He hooks a finger under my chin, forcing my eyes to stay on his.
“You’re too careful,” he says quietly, almost like it’s a compliment. “Every word, every move. Even when you pretend to let go, you’re still holding something back.”
I tilt my head, giving him a faint, questioning smile. “I thought men loved a little mystery.”
His thumb strokes the line of my jaw, deceptively gentle. “Mystery is for strangers. You are in my bed. You’re my wife.”
The words land heavy.
“Maybe I’m shy. All this is new to me.”
“Or maybe you lie like you drink whiskey,” he replies, his mouth so close I can breathe the ghost of his breath. “Smooth.”
“And you don’t like that?”
His gaze drags down my face, my throat, lingering on the faint sheen of whiskey still drying on my skin. “Oh, I like it,” he says, the words slow as poured honey. “I just want you to tell me something true.”
I wet my lips, the burn of the whiskey lingering there. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll take the truth another way.”
My mind races to come up with something, anything to appease him.
I’ve got nothing.
His hand tightens at the back of my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who’s holding the line between play and something else entirely.
“You had your chance to talk. Now I’ll take your truth.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s pushing me onto the bed and kissing me again with a force that leaves no space to breathe in anything but him.
One hand stays tangled in my hair, keeping me exactly where he wants me, while the other skims down my side until it rests at the curve of my hip.
He breaks the kiss only to pour another ribbon of whiskey along the inside of my thigh. The cool shock makes me twitch, and his grip tightens.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
