Fire Behind Glass
I slammed the car door shut. The engine was still hot, windows faintly fogged. The air inside smelled of burnt rubber and my own ragged breathing.
Alessandro was watching me, torso tilted toward me, a mix of frustration, tension and pure anticipation flickering in his eyes. He didn’t move. He waited for my signal.
He’d understood. This wasn’t a plea. It was an order.
I swung one leg over him in the passenger seat, knees braced on either side of his thighs, my fingers sliding into his damp hair.
“Now,” I whispered, voice low, vibrating. “Hard. No holding back. I want to feel you.”
He looked at me. And that look — darker than a thunderstorm.
His hands locked around my hips, firm enough to hold me there, his breath turning rough. I moved against him, hips seeking friction, a tension that wouldn’t end. My mouth found his, fierce, biting, claiming.
But he didn’t give in — not yet.
With one arm he shifted me, pressing me briefly against the steering wheel, then tugged at my clothes, exposing just enough skin to taste. His teeth grazed my collarbone; his mouth marked a trail up my neck, not to hurt me — to brand the moment.
I gasped. My back arched. My fingers clutched at the seat. He was on me with his mouth, his hands, his rage. I felt his control, his heat, his patience snapping thread by thread.
And then, with a growl low enough to shake the car, he pulled me back to him. The world blurred into sweat and breath and sound — a rush of motion, touch and hunger. Not soft. Not slow. A fever released between two people who’d stopped pretending.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.
The car steamed up, our silhouettes moving like shadows behind glass. Every gasp, every shudder, every whisper was swallowed by the dark interior until the last tremor faded.
When it was over, he held me close, forehead buried against my neck, my heartbeat thudding against his chest. I’d never felt more alive.
I’d seen them coming back from a distance.
Him at the wheel. Her in the passenger seat.
Eyes unfocused. Lips swollen. Hair undone.
No need to be a mind reader.
With a single glance she’d already confessed everything.
That was Hope. Incapable of hiding passion when it overflowed.
And Alessandro? He walked differently. Like he’d taken a live current straight to the heart.
I sipped my coffee, watching them approach.
“Those two are going to burn each other alive,” I muttered under my breath.
A few minutes later, we were back at the villa. Alessandro insisted on showers, fresh clothes, then dinner. Not a fast-food pit stop — a real restaurant. Official. Like he was drawing a line under what had just happened.
Hope shot upstairs. I was ready first, rum glass in hand. Alessandro reappeared freshly showered, black jeans and a fitted tee, still damp hair, visibly calmer. He sat across from me, poured himself a whiskey.
“You got two minutes?” he asked.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Shoot.”
He set his glass down, eyes locking on mine.
“Tell me what I need to know. About her. What she hides. What I’m not seeing yet.”
I took a breath. And spoke.
“She tells you she’s strong. And she is. But what she doesn’t tell you… is how much of that strength she built alone. Her father — New York mob — gunned down in front of her at thirteen. Her mother? Depression, dead two years later. Since then she survived. Didn’t live. Survived. Until she disappeared into med school.”
His jaw tightened.
I went on.
“She’s had dark phases. Men who didn’t deserve her. Nights of self-destruction to forget the emptiness. And every time, she got back up. But she learned something from it — never depend on anyone. Ever.”
He nodded slowly.
“So if one day she says ‘stay,’ don’t play the distant guy. Stay. Even if she says the opposite five minutes later.”
“She’s already said that,” he murmured.
I smiled.
“And what did you do?”
“I stayed.”
“Then maybe you get it. Maybe you’ve got a shot. Of course, I never told you any of this,” I added with a wink.
We clinked glasses. And right then she walked in.