"Just give me what I want," she moans, her voice low and husky with lust. "Or get off me and let me go home.”
With a growl of approval, I position myself at her entrance, the head of my dick teasing her wetness before plunging inside her. She arches her back with a moan as I fill her completely, our bodies melding together as if they were made for one another.
The delicious friction of our bodies working together is enough to send me reeling. I grip her hips, holding her in place as I thrust into her over and over again, our moans mingling together. When I bring my hand down on her ass again, leaving a bright red hand print, she gasps again, bucking upward into me. It drives my cock so deep, I hit her cervix and draw a groan of pleasure.
Her moans spur me on, and I increase my pace, driving into her with a ferocity that leaves us both gasping for air. I can feel it building inside her, the way her walls squeeze around my cock, milking me in a way that threatens to send me over the edge too soon.
"Rosa," I growl, my voice thick with need. "Come for me,Cara mia." It's all the encouragement she needs. Her body tenses beneath mine as her second orgasm of the night crashes over her, her cries of pleasure music to my ears. The tightening of her muscles around my cock sends me over the edge as well, and with a final thrust, I spill myself inside her.
As our breathing slowly returns to normal, I roll off her, collapsing on the bed beside her. Rosaria's body trembles as she catches her breath, her chest heaving. Sweat glistens on both of our bodies, evidence of the passionate encounter we just shared. My hand finds hers, entwining our fingers as I pull her back against my chest.
Afterward, she doesn't move for a long time, just lies on her side with my hand around her waist. The silence between us is filled with unspoken truths and the weight of what we've just shared. I can feel the rhythm of her breathing against my chest, as if she's calculating her next move even in this moment of stillness.
"You could stay," I tell her, my voice barely above a whisper. The words escape before I can stop them, revealing more vulnerability than I typically allow myself.
She shifts slightly, and I feel her shake her head against the pillow. "I can't."
"Why not?" I press, though I already know the answer already. Emilio is a sworn enemy for now, and if she chose my side of this dispute, it would escalate to full-scale war.
"Rome is a prison," she says, her voice carrying a weariness that speaks to years of careful navigation through dangerous waters. "But it's still my stage."
I tighten my grip around her waist, not possessively, but protectively. "You don't owe them anything, Rosaria."
This time, she turns in my arms to face me, and in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I can see the conflict playing across her features. "You don't understand what it means to belong to people who raised you," she says, and there's a finality in her tone that tells me this is an argument I cannot win with logic or passion.
The silence returns, heavier now. I want to argue, to tell her that belonging should never come at the cost of freedom, but I recognize the futility. We both know the rules of the world we inhabit, the invisible chains that bind us to loyalties we never chose but cannot easily abandon.
When she finally rises and begins to dress, I watch her the whole time. Every movement is graceful, as if she's performing even now. She steps into her dress with the same poise shebrings to the stage, her fingers working the buttons until her creamy skin is cloaked. There's something almost ritualistic about the way she transforms back into the woman the world expects her to be, hiding the vulnerability she's just shared with me beneath layers of silk and composure.
I remain still, propped up on one elbow, studying her profile in the low light. She knows I'm watching—she's always aware of her audience—but she doesn't acknowledge it until she's fully dressed and ready to leave.
At the door, she pauses and looks back at me, her hand resting on the handle. "Don't make me miss this," she says, and the words carry multiple meanings I don’t let slip past me, especially when she smirks.
I hold her gaze, understanding exactly what she's asking of me. "I won't."
After she leaves, I lie in the darkness for several minutes, staring at the ceiling and breathing in the lingering scent of her perfume. The room feels emptier now, as if her presence had filled spaces I hadn't realized were hollow.
Finally, I reach for my phone and dial Bruno's number. He answers on the second ring, alert despite the late hour.
"Keep eyes on her," I tell him. "Every second until she's back in this bed."
"Understood, Boss."
I end the call and settle back against the pillows, but sleep doesn't come easily. Instead, I find myself thinking about prisons and stages, about the difference between protection and possession, and about a woman who moves through both with equal grace and resignation.
14
ROSARIA
The halls of the opera house echo with my footsteps as I walk toward Luca's office, my stomach already churning before I've even heard the news. The schedule board near the rehearsal rooms caught my attention twenty minutes ago—my name is absent from the showcase lineup where it should have been prominently displayed.
I knock on Luca's door, though I don't wait for permission before entering. He looks up from his desk, his expression carefully neutral in that way that tells me he's expecting my explosion. He should—this place used to be my castle and it feels like I’ve been relegated to the dungeon lately.
"Rosaria," he says, setting down his pen. "Please, sit."
"I'll stand." I fold my arms across my chest. "Why am I not on the showcase schedule?"
Luca leans back in his chair, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. More than anyone else in this wretched, politically driven organism, Luca plays the game. Money changes hands and artists rise or fall based on the whims of whoever pays the most. My uncle is playing a deadly game with my future and I hate it.
