CHAPTER 81: BARE AND RAW

CHAPTER 81: BARE AND RAW
LUCA

I’ve just swallowed a prince whole, and now he’s acting like I’m the last drop of water in the Sahara.

Kristian doesn’t stop kissing me. Not for air. Not for reason. Not even when I try to slow things down.

His mouth is soft but urgent, like he’s trying to burn the memory of this moment into his skin. Into his fucking soul.

The knowledge that he wants me this much is enough to drive me insane. I can barely think or breathe or move or…anything.

I’m consumed by all that is him—and I never want this feeling to end.

With Kristian, every time we touch feels like the first time. And because of our…situation, it also feels like the last.

He surges forward, pushing me flat on the carpet. He straddles me, chest slick with leftover paint and sweat. His hands slide into my briefs like he’s done it a thousand times.

My whole body arches into his touch, heat flooding my spine. I want him. All of him. I don’t just want his dick in my mouth. I want to bend him over and see how much of me he can take.

If he’s never done this before, I wonder how tight he would feel.

Has he? Maybe not with a man? A woman?

Annika?

The question makes my heart pound as he runs a finger over the head of my cock.

I moan. But at the same time, I think—which is rare.

I don’t just want to make love to the Prince of Sweden. I want to make him mine. But that’s not possible. He belongs to someone else.

“Kristian,” I whisper, catching his wrists. My voice comes out hoarse. “Wait.”

He pauses, brows pulling together, swollen lips parted. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp, golden strands. He looks wrecked—in the best way—and I want him so badly I ache.

But I also want to do this right. Even if I don’t know what that means.

I pull his hands away slowly, gently, like I’m disarming a bomb. I sit up. “We…we shouldn’t rush.”

His mouth drops open. “Rush?” he repeats, like I told him the world is flat. “Luca, we—”

“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. It’s taking everything in me not to kiss him. “Trust me, I know.”

He’s silent. Then his bottom lip juts out in the softest pout I’ve ever seen on a grown man. “You’re cruel.”

I chuckle. “And you’re cute when you sulk.” I kiss him—slowly. He leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Eventually, we pull apart. I stand and tug him up with me. “Come on, let’s shower. You’re still covered in the rainbow.”

“You’re the one who painted me like a deranged Pollock,” he mutters, following me to the bathroom. He has the cutest smile, and I want to kiss it.

The shower is warm, steam fogs the mirror. Kristian steps under the stream first and groans.

“How does your groan sound so sexy? Like you’re auditioning for a shampoo commercial,” I say, stepping in behind him.

He elbows me lightly. “You sound jealous.”

“I am. Of the shampoo.”

His cheeks flush.

I reach for the loofah, lather it up, and start running it down his back. The soap cuts through paint and sweat and it all swirls down the drain like dirty sunshine.

“What are we going to do?” he asks.

“About what?”

“The… situation,” he says, ducking under the stream. “Us.”

My heart skips, but I manage a shrug. “We’re adults. We’ll figure it out.”

His hand touches my hip. Barely there. But it sends a thousand volts through my skin.

He turns to face me. I run my hand over his stomach, where the last streaks of paint cling. Then I lean in and kiss his eyelid.

“I like your eyes best when you’re not pretending.”

Kristian goes still.

Then he kisses the center of my chest, right where my heart thunders.

“I like how strong your heart is,” he says.

That nearly undoes me.

He touches my shoulders, then runs his hands down my arms—not like he’s trying to get me off, but like he’s trying to know me, to map every inch of my skin.

I’ve never let anyone see me like this. Bare and raw. Showering with someone used to make me feel trapped.

I think about Alessia, a girl I dated two years ago. She used to beg me to shower with her after sex. I always had an excuse. Truth? I never wanted to be that close to someone else.

Somehow, it felt more intimate than sex itself.

But now—here—I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want Kristian to see all of me.

He traces a line down my spine, his lips brushing my jaw. I feel the tension roll off him, replaced by something softer.

“This feels different,” I say, leaning my forehead on his.

He doesn’t ask what I mean. I think he knows.

We don’t rush. We rinse. We breathe. We touch and kiss and stay just this side of restraint, both of us trembling with what we’re holding back.

When we step out, I toss him a towel. He ties it around his waist with too much pride.

“Don’t act like you just fought a war and won,” I say.

“I did,” he grins. “A war against your cruelty.”

I flick my towel at his thigh. “Keep talking and I’ll show you cruel.”

He raises a brow in challenge, and I step in, closing the space between us. I kiss his lips and trail my fingers along the edge of the towel.

“Stop,” he murmurs, even though he leans in. “I just barely got deflated.”

“I know,” I say, moving closer. “I want you…” I glance at the bulge rising under the towel. “Inflated.”

He looks down. His hands move like he might touch me, but instead, he shoots me a glare and steps away. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s only so much restraint a man can have.”

He opens the door as I burst into laughter—and freezes.

So do I.

Giovanni is standing in the middle of the room.

His eyes bounce from Kristian’s bare chest to mine, to our towels, to the room. Then back to us.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do we.

The silence stretches, taut and awful. And the fluttery, giddy feeling in my chest congeals into something thick and heavy.