Kill me
~ Camilla
We landed in Catania close to midnight. My body was begging for death.
Not in a cute, poetic way. No. I mean actual death. Spontaneous combustion. The kind where I would simply explode in a cloud of shame and jet lag, and leave behind nothing but a faint trace of coconut hair oil and one (1) unbothered man in a suit.
I hadn’t spoken to Stephano since that godforsaken phone call the morning after Alex dropped me off.
I’d packed my bags like a woman on trial for a crime she didn’t commit, grabbing every buttoned-up blouse, every modest skirt, every single item that screamed I’m a decent woman with no history of riding my boss’s cock. I wore flats on the flight. Tied my hair up in a bun so tight my scalp was humming. I spent seven hours on that goddamn plane ignoring him while he typed away on his MacBook and smirked at me from first class like the devil in Armani.
And now, at 12:43 AM, we were standing in the glittering marble lobby of some boutique Sicilian hotel while I dragged my busted pink box across the floor like a woman dragging her soul to hell.
We walked up to the reception desk together, because unfortunately, Stephano didn’t believe in basic spatial boundaries, and I cleared my throat, already pulling out my reservation email with the grim optimism of someone begging the gods for mercy.
“Hi, yes, hello. Reservation for…”
“Ms. Camilla Whitlock and Mr. Stephano Maddens,” the receptionist finished for me, bright-eyed and full of midnight customer service delusion. “Welcome to Hotel Bellavista! One deluxe room. Queen bed. Third floor. Here’s your key.”
She smiled sweetly.
I blinked.
Stephano said nothing. He just turned his head slightly toward me like let the games begin.
I stared at the little plastic keycard she held out with two manicured fingers.
“I’m sorry, one room?”
The receptionist nodded, chipper. “Yes, ma’am. One queen bed. Deluxe suite.”
“No, no, no. That can’t be right.” I was already unzipping my bag to find my printed itinerary like a suburban mother at TSA. “I booked two rooms. I definitely booked two rooms. I remember.”
“Unfortunately, this is all we have under the name. One deluxe. For two guests.”
My voice cracked. “That’s impossible.”
Stephano took the key from her and inspected it with all the concern of a man selecting a cigar. “Maybe you were too busy thinking about my cock when you hit confirm,” he murmured, just low enough for me to hear.
“I double-checked the confirmation, I swear,” I hissed. “I booked two. I even selected ‘business trip’ on the drop-down menu. I used the corporate card. I added the tax ID!”
“I believe you,” the receptionist said gently, blinking at me like I was moments from climbing over the desk and shaking the Wi-Fi password out of her. “But there’s only one reservation in our system. One room. Everything else is booked out. The conference brought a lot of last-minute traffic to the area.”
I laughed.
Like, laughed-laughed.
One of those high-pitched, teetering-on-a-breakdown laughs that sound like a woman about to lose her job, her mind, and her boyfriend in one fell swoop.
Stephano leaned one elbow on the counter. “You okay there, love?”
I turned to him, teeth clenched. “Don’t.”
“Because we could always share the bed,” he added, voice a little too amused. “It’s queen-sized.”
I turned back to the receptionist. “Ma’am, I am so sure I booked two rooms. Is there anything, anything at all, you can do?”
She clicked a few buttons, frowned at the screen, shook her head. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Whitlock. There’s not a single room left. Not even a single.”
I wanted to cry.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
Not after everything. Not after last night with Alex. Not after making promises to myself about being professional and dignified and celibate. Not after the phone call where I swore to Jesus, my ancestors, and the ghost of HR policies that I would never again sleep near Stephano Maddens. And now? Now the only thing standing between me and his six-foot-four, cologne-soaked, egotistical, thoroughly dangerous body was a single queen mattress and probably two pillows.
He looked way too pleased with himself.
“No, no, wait,” I said, voice rising. “Is there another hotel nearby? Maybe you can help me find a room? I’m sure I clicked two rooms. Please, there must be a mistake.”
The receptionist gave me a sympathetic smile, but her eyes were apologetic. “Unfortunately, all nearby hotels are fully booked because of the conference. This is the only room available.”
My stomach sank like a stone. I felt a tightness in my chest. “But, I need separate rooms. Please. I have to have separate rooms.”
Stephano, who had been standing silently beside me, suddenly leaned over the desk and took the key from the receptionist’s hand.
“We’ll take it,” he said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I whipped around, eyes blazing. “What? No! You can’t be serious.”
He flashed me that infuriating grin that said deal with it. “Why not? It’s just one room. We’re adults.”
I planted my hands on my hips, trying to summon my best glare. “I am not sharing a room with you.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “It’s late. It’s the only option. You can sleep on the floor if you want.”
“I will sleep on the floor,” I said firmly, glaring daggers at him. “But I am not sharing a bed with you.”
“Oh, come on, Camilla,” he said, voice silky but with a sharp edge. “You’re not going to leave me all alone, are you? Don’t be like that.”
My mind raced in a chaotic jumble of thoughts. He smells like expensive cologne and danger. His eyes are boring into me like he’s trying to pull my soul out. Why can’t I just say yes and get it over with? But no. No. I was better than that. I was different now. I had Alex. I had boundaries.
The receptionist cleared her throat softly. “If I may suggest, signor Maddens, perhaps you and signorina Whitlock can take the room, and I can call the other hotels again in the morning.”
Stephano’s smile grew wider, like he had just won some silent battle. “Perfect. See? It all works out.”
I wanted to scream. My suitcase felt suddenly heavier, like it was filled with my rising anxiety.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “But I’m taking the floor.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I thought about all the things I was going to have to endure.
This was going to be the longest night of my life.
I stepped into the room and blinked.
Oh, God.
Queen. Sized. Bed.
One. Queen. Sized. Bed.
Like the kind with the plush pillows and the big, fluffy duvet that swallows you whole and makes you want to stay there for twelve hours and possibly lose your morals under the sheets. And of course, it had that annoyingly romantic amber lighting and stupidly cozy ambiance. The room smelled like money, probably just my delusion, but still. The moment I stepped in, it felt like the walls themselves knew I was in trouble.
My eyes did a panicked scan, no pull-out couch, no twin mattress, no magical trapdoor that would lead to a second, platonic room. Just a big-ass bed sitting in the middle of the room like it had been waiting for this moment.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even have the emotional bandwidth to say anything.
Stephano walked in behind me, dragging his suitcase like a man who had never suffered in his life. He surveyed the room with the calm indifference of someone who had probably already mentally claimed both pillows and the side of the bed with the power outlet. Then, without a word, he tossed his suitcase down, loosened his tie, and, Lord in heaven, started unbuttoning his shirt.
I turned, slowly, like a character in a horror movie who just realized the killer was behind her.
“What… are you doing?” I asked, voice already betraying how much my soul was exiting my body.
He glanced at me with maddening calm. His fingers worked on the next button. “Getting comfortable.”
“You’re undressing in front of me?”
He raised one brow. “What? You want me to help you take yours off too?”
I blinked. “I…Excuse me?”
“I’m just being hospitable, Camilla,” he said, that fucking smug smile stretching across his face as he let the shirt fall from his shoulders. “Besides, you’re the one who booked us a romantic little honeymoon suite. I’m just playing my part.”
I stood there, frozen, fighting the urge to stab him with the nearest coat hanger.
Do not look at his chest.
Do not look at his chest.
Damn, that chest.
Nope. Don’t look.
I gave him a very mature eye-roll and turned to my suitcase, kneeling down to unzip it with all the composure of a woman not currently on the verge of throwing herself into a volcano.
“Nightgown,” I muttered under my breath, yanking it out. “Bed. Boundaries. Sanity.”
He made a low sound, like a chuckle, and that was when I heard the belt unbuckle.
I looked up.
He had dropped his pants.
Boxers.
Tight ones.
And I shouldn’t have looked.
I really shouldn’t have looked.
Because now the outline of his cock was just… there. Like it belonged in a museum behind velvet ropes with dramatic lighting and a plaque that said This Exhibit Ends Marriages.
My stomach did a little somersault.
I swallowed hard. Looked away. Looked up. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at Jesus.
“You gonna keep staring or change into that pretty little thing in your hand?” he asked, voice lower now. Teasing. Dangerous.
I gripped my nightgown like it was a weapon. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m dating your friend,” I snapped, spinning on my heel.
“Yeah. And yet you keep staring at my cock like it owes you rent.”
My jaw dropped.
This man was the devil. An actual Armani-wearing, cocky-laughing, filthy-tongued devil.
I stomped off to the bathroom before I could commit a felony.
The second the door shut behind me, I pressed my back to it and exhaled like I’d just run a marathon in stilettos.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I paced. Back and forth. Like a woman on the brink of a meltdown. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked just as chaotic as I felt.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Okay. You’re fine. Everything is fine. You’re going to survive this. You’re not going to fuck him. You’re not. You are a loyal woman. You have Alex. You love Alex. Alex is soft. And good. And emotionally available. He lets you talk about your feelings. He doesn’t, God, look like that in boxer briefs.”
I turned to the sink, splashed cold water on my face.
“And this nightgown is fine. It’s just silk. It’s just see-through. So what. You didn’t know you’d be rooming with Satan.”
I looked down at the nightgown again.
It was black.
It was backless.
And the lace dipped way too low over the tits and way too high over the thighs. Oh my God. I packed this thinking I’d be alone, journaling and drinking overpriced minibar wine, not sleeping six feet from the man whose mouth had once been on my…
I shut the thought down. Brutally.
I peeled off my travel clothes and yanked the nightgown on like it was a prison uniform.
“This is fine. This is totally fine. He won’t even notice.”
I stepped out of the bathroom and realized immediately that he noticed.
His eyes dragged over me the second I walked out, slow and heated and hungry in the worst possible way. I felt it, felt like a hot breath across my entire body.
He didn’t say anything, which made it worse. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, chest bare, and smirking in full bloom.
I turned away, pretending I didn’t see him licking his lips like I was dessert.
“I’m taking the floor,” I said, grabbing an extra pillow from the bed.
He didn’t argue. Just said, casually, “Your tits look good in that.”
I froze.
Turned. “Excuse me?”
“I said you look comfy. That’s what I meant.”
“Asshole.”
He chuckled. “Guilty.”
I laid the pillow on the floor, took a deep breath, and climbed down onto the cold tiles like a nun in heat trying to avoid damnation.
This trip was going to kill me.