Page 45 of Flawed

Red fills Luca's cheeks. A drop of sweat falls down his face. His breath becomes ragged, and he buries his forehead into my neck.

Whispers, muffled cries, and groans mix with the scent of our potent arousal. The sensation I'm floating above us hits me, and everything becomes blurrier. Luca shouts something in Italian, but I don't comprehend it. His cock detonates inside me so forcefully, I can no longer hold myself up. He tightens both arms around me and presses his face to the back of my neck. A violent shudder overpowers him, pounding into my convulsions.

Time seems to stand still as the aftermath of our actions continues to roll through our bodies. Sweat turns cold, except for where our skin still touches. A new chill runs through me, and goose bumps cover my limbs.

Luca slowly removes me from his body, scoots over to the chaise part of the sofa, lies down, and orders, "Come here, stellina."

I don't think, just obey, curling into his body. He takes the cream blanket, puts it over us, then kisses my head.

Neither of us speaks. I close my eyes, listening to the beat of Luca's heart, thinking about how our baby sounds just like his. All the previous debates about whether or not to tell him I'm pregnant rear their ugly heads again.

I remind myself that Luca's made it clear he's not in a world where I belong. Who knows what would happen if he knew the Marinos employ me and my father works for them, too?

But the baby is his flesh and blood.

My job as the baby's mother is to protect her at all costs.

Surely her father wouldn't hurt her.

Do I even know anything about Luca?

It's not about him. It's about who he's around.

Would the Abruzzos take my baby from me? Especially if they know I'm loyal to the Marinos?

"I could stay like this forever," Luca murmurs, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turn toward him more and tilt my head, asking the painful question I wish I didn't have to, "What are we doing?"

Guilt and sadness fill Luca's face. He stays quiet, repeatedly grazing his thumb over my lips, never taking his eyes off mine.

Deciding it's best to change the subject, I run my fingers over a dark mark on the back of his shoulder. It's a few inches and shaped like a silhouette. I ask, "Is this a birthmark or a tattoo?"

His eyes turn nostalgic. "Birthmark. My mamma used to tell me it was my guardian angel. She said I had so much energy in me that I needed to always have her on me."

I smile and peer closer, noting, "It does look a little bit like one. Do you believe in guardian angels?"

He kisses my forehead. "Maybe."

I reach up and cup his right cheek. I stroke his scar and ask, "How did you get this?"

A tiny curve forms on his lips. He admits, "In Italy. I was twelve."

I jerk my head back. "Why are you smiling about it?"

His grin widens, and he answers, "Because I was a cocky little shit that needed to learn a lesson."

"What do you mean?" I question, still horrified over the thought of a twelve-year-old boy learning a lesson by obtaining a lifelong scar.

He stares at me momentarily then confesses, "When my mamma died, I went to live with my father's employer. I had a big chip on my shoulder and always tempted his son to do things he shouldn't."

"Like what?"

Luca grunts. "Play in his father's office. Open drawers we had no business opening. Spy on his sisters and their friends when they were getting dressed."

I graze my finger over his scar, quizzing, "Seems innocent to me."

He snorts. "No. Nothing was innocent. We knew who his father was and that it was wrong. We also knew it was disrespecting not only the girls but also his father, by spying."

---