Chapter 38 Hot on the Island

Chapter 38 Hot on the Island

Morning light filtered through the tall windows of the house on the island, softened by sheer curtains that swayed with the ocean breeze. Giulia woke slowly, her body heavy as if she had carried the previous night’s dream on her back all the way into morning. The bed was a mess, the sheets tangled at her feet, and the air still carried a faint trace of salt and something else—sweat, maybe, or the lingering scent of wine from dinner. She stretched, feeling her muscles protest, and for a second, the room felt unfamiliar, as if it didn’t belong to her. As if none of it did.

Vicenzo wasn’t in bed. Not in the room either. She sat up, dragging her hands over her face, trying to shake off the images still clinging to her mind: the knife, the blood, his name in Luca’s mouth. Vicenzo. Not hers. Always him. Her chest tightened again, a mix of anger and something she refused to name. She got out of bed, slipped into a short robe she found in the closet—thin silk, probably chosen by him for some kind of power play she didn’t fully understand yet—and stepped into the hallway.

The house was too quiet for morning. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below was the only steady noise, like a slow, pulsing heartbeat. Giulia went downstairs, bare feet against the cold wood floor, and found Vicenzo in the open kitchen that led to the terrace. He had his back to her, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, working a coffee maker. Sunlight hit his back, outlining his broad shoulders, and for a moment, she paused in the doorway, watching him. He looked calm, controlled, as always. But there was something in the tension of his shoulders, in the way he stirred the spoon harder than necessary.

“Sleep well?” he asked without turning, his voice neutral, as if he had known she was there all along.

Giulia crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. The robe slipped open slightly at the front, but she didn’t bother closing it. She let the cool morning air brush against her skin.

“Like an angel,” she replied, dripping with sarcasm. “Nightmares are great for restorative sleep.”

He turned his head just enough for her to see his sharp profile, the strong line of his jaw. His dark eyes met hers for a second, and there was something there—not pity, not exactly. Something he quickly hid, turning back to the coffee.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the marble island. “There’s fruit. Coffee. I’m not a servant, but I can pretend for five minutes.”

She walked over slowly, pulling out a high stool and sitting down. The robe rode up slightly on her thighs, but she didn’t adjust it. Let him notice, if he wanted. She picked up a slice of mango from the tray, biting into it without real hunger, the sweet juice running down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, watching him the entire time.

“About last night…” she started, her voice low, testing the ground. “You came into the room. Saw me crying like an idiot. And now you’re acting like nothing happened.”

Vicenzo stopped stirring the coffee. He set the spoon down on the counter with a sharp click and turned to face her fully. Arms crossed over his chest—the posture he used when he wanted to dominate the space.

“What do you want me to say?” he shot back, his tone firm but not aggressive. “That I feel sorry for you? That it changes anything? You said ‘I didn’t mean to.’ I heard it. But words in the middle of the night aren’t proof, Giulia. They’re just echoes.”

She felt her stomach twist. Echoes. As if her desperation was nothing more than background noise. She chewed the mango more slowly, swallowing the sweet bitterness.

“Echoes of what?” she asked, tilting her head. “Guilt? Truth? Or do you just want me to confess something that fits your perfect revenge narrative?”

He stepped forward, leaning against the island, hands braced on the marble edge. The distance between them vanished, the scent of coffee and his cologne invading her space.

“Trust isn’t built with tears, Giulia,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “It’s built with actions. You say you didn’t mean to, but you still hold pieces of that story like they’re grenades. How do I trust someone who doesn’t even trust herself?”

The word trust hung in the air, heavy. Heat climbed up her neck. She dropped the mango back onto the tray, wiped her hands on the robe, and stood slowly, stepping closer. Now they were face to face, her body almost brushing his.

“Trust?” she repeated, letting out a humorless laugh. “You talk about trust like you didn’t trap me in a contract, drag me to this island like a prisoner. You’re nothing but control, Vicenzo. A façade of a strong man who doesn’t feel anything. But I saw you last night. You came into that room and didn’t walk away. You stayed there, looking at me like it hurt you too.”

His eyes narrowed, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. He didn’t step back. Instead, he extended an arm, bracing his hand on the counter behind her, cornering her without touching her yet. His body was a wall of heat and tension.

“You think you know what I feel?” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “I control things because it keeps me alive. Love, trust… that’s weakness. And you? You use that guilt like a shield, but deep down, you want me to break it for you.”

Giulia didn’t retreat. Instead, she lifted her chin, her breasts brushing lightly against his chest through the thin robe. She felt his heartbeat pick up—traitor.

“Then break it,” she challenged, her lips inches from his. “Show me you’re not just a façade. Or are you afraid of losing control with me?”

That was the trigger. Vicenzo snapped instantly. His free hand shot up, gripping her jaw firmly, tilting her face upward. His eyes burned, a mix of anger and something more primal.

“You want to play with fire, Giulia?” he growled, his thumb pressing against her lower lip. “I’ll show you what happens when I lose control.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she bit his thumb lightly, her teeth marking his skin without hurting—just enough to challenge. Her body reacted before her mind, a shiver running up her spine.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Punish your prisoner. But don’t pretend it’s just anger.”

He didn’t wait another second. His mouth crashed against hers in a brutal, punishing kiss, teeth grazing her lips as if claiming territory. Giulia matched him, hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard, guiding the kiss into something wilder. There was no tenderness. It was war—desire mixed with the need to prove something. To him. To her. To Luca’s ghost still lurking in the corners of her mind.

Vicenzo lifted her by the waist in one fluid motion, his large hands gripping her bare thighs beneath the robe, which fell completely open now. He set her down on the marble island, the cold surface clashing with the heat of his body pressing between her legs. The kiss didn’t break; he devoured her, bit her, as if trying to swallow her words along with her taste.

“You provoke me…” he murmured against her mouth, one hand moving to tear the robe off her shoulders, exposing her skin. “Like I can’t break you.”

Giulia arched, her nails digging into his back through the shirt, tearing the fabric in a sudden, impulsive move. She felt guilt pounding in her chest—Luca, this is betrayal—but the desire was stronger, a wave dragging her under. She used her body like a weapon, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness against her.

“Then break me,” she breathed, biting his earlobe. “But don’t stop. Don’t pretend this is just punishment.”

He groaned, low and animal, his hands moving with a hunger that betrayed the control he claimed to have. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly, tossing it aside, pulling hers down as his mouth moved along her neck, biting her collarbone, leaving red marks that would linger tomorrow. Giulia moaned, her head falling back, hands moving to his belt, fumbling with impatient fingers.

They moved like a contained storm. Vicenzo turned her around over the island, her body bent against the cold marble, his hand pinning her wrists above her head while the other moved along her back, gripping, guiding. He entered her slowly at first, forced control that quickly unraveled into something rougher, more desperate. Each thrust carried both punishment in its force and desire in the way he leaned down to kiss her neck, whispering her name like a curse.

“You’re mine…” he growled, his rhythm quickening, sweat sliding down his temple. “Mine to fuck, to break…”

But his touch betrayed more. The same fingers that gripped now softened, tracing along her ribs, as if he couldn’t stop himself. Giulia felt everything—the guilt of moaning his name, of arching into him like nothing else existed. This is wrong, Luca would kill me, she thought, but her body didn’t stop, answering with nails digging into his thighs, movements that made him curse under his breath in Italian.

At some point, they fell to the kitchen floor, the soft rug cushioning the impact, their bodies tangled in chaotic motion. Vicenzo on top, then her flipping them, straddling him with a ferocity that caught him off guard. His eyes, dark and glazed, looked at her as if she were the only real thing in the world—not a prisoner, but something he needed as much as he hated needing.

The climax hit like an explosion, both of them breathless, calling each other’s names into the silence of the house. Giulia collapsed against his chest, her heart pounding against his, sweat mixing. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, strong and tight, as if afraid she might disappear.

They stayed like that for minutes, maybe hours—time blurred. Exhausted, bodies intertwined on the kitchen floor, sunlight climbing higher through the window. Giulia fell asleep first, her head on his shoulder, the robe forgotten somewhere.

Vicenzo woke before her, his body sore, his mind too clear for what had just happened. He moved slowly, slipping out from under her without waking her, sitting back against the island, staring at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell steadily, but inside, it was chaos.

Idiot, he thought, running a hand through his damp hair. You fucked her like she was yours, but touched her like you were hers. Loving the mistake… that’s what you do best. Luca would kill you for this.

He stood, picked up his shirt from the floor and put it on, his eyes drifting back to her one last time. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Dangerous. His. Not his.

He left the kitchen without looking back, the sound of the waves mocking him outside.