Chapter 36- Don't Touch Me Again

Chapter 36- Don't Touch Me Again
ARIA’S POV

The moment my feet hit the last step, I heard his voice.

Low. Calm. Proud.

“Don’t you look amazing,” my father said.

He stood by the window, newspaper in one hand, coffee cup in the other, but his eyes—sharp and assessing—were all on me. There was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“You finally look more like my daughter,” he said, “not the woman sulking inside her bedroom.”

I forced a smile, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes. “If I’m going to the Mexican dinner tomorrow night, I need to look my best. Can’t show up looking like a woman in mourning.”

He chuckled, a deep sound that used to make me feel safe when I was younger. “Yes, my dear, that’s more like it. Go shopping today. Buy whatever you need.” His gaze flicked toward the door. “But make sure you take Alessandro with you.”

My stomach tightened instantly.

Of course. It had to be him.

For a second, I wanted to argue, to tell him I didn’t need a babysitter. But then I caught the way his eyes narrowed slightly—one of those silent warnings I’d grown up recognizing. So instead, I swallowed the protest and nodded.

“Fine,” I said, voice flat.

“Good girl,” he murmured, already turning back to his paper.

Good girl. The words burned like acid on my tongue.

I left before I said something I’d regret.

Outside, the sun was too bright, the air too sharp. Alessandro was waiting near the car, as calm and unreadable as always. His black shirt was rolled at the sleeves, his jacket hung loosely over one arm. He looked cold, dangerous, beautiful.

When he saw me, he didn’t say a word. Just opened the door.

I hesitated for a second, then slid inside, keeping my chin high, refusing to meet his eyes. He got in after me.

The silence between us felt alive.

The driver started the car, and the hum of the engine filled the space. Still, neither of us spoke.

I could feel him beside me, though. Every second. Every breath. The air shifted when he moved, when his hand brushed against the seat, when his gaze flicked toward the window. It was like my body knew him—hated him, wanted him, all at once.

The drive felt endless.

When we finally stopped in front of an exclusive boutique, I was out of the car before he even opened his door.

I walked in first, pretending not to notice the way the staff straightened the moment they saw me. The boutique was bright and elegant, all white marble and gold fixtures. The scent of perfume hung in the air.

Alessandro followed behind me, silent as a shadow.

“Miss Moretti,” one of the attendants said quickly, hurrying over with a wide smile. “We’ve prepared a few new arrivals. Would you like to take a look?”

“Yes,” I said simply.

She led me to a rack of dresses, all expensive and stunning, but my eyes went straight to one in particular—a red dress. Bold. Daring. The kind of dress that demanded attention.

The moment I touched the fabric, I knew it was the one.

It was dangerous, like fire.

“I’ll try this,” I said, and the woman nodded eagerly, ushering me toward the fitting rooms.

Inside, the light was soft and flattering. I slipped out of my clothes, the silk of the red dress whispering over my skin as I pulled it on. It hugged every curve, the slit high on my thigh, the neckline low. It was perfect. Except—

The zipper.

It stopped halfway up my back.

I twisted, trying to reach it, but my fingers couldn’t get a grip. My patience snapped.

Grinding my teeth, I opened the door, scanning for one of the attendants. But they were gone—fetching me more dresses, probably.

The only person in sight was Alessandro.

He was sitting on the couch, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world. His head lifted slightly when he felt me watching him.

Our eyes met.

“Help me,” I said through clenched teeth.

His brows rose slightly, but he didn’t move right away. Then, slowly, he stood and walked toward me—his steps steady, unhurried.

The closer he got, the more I regretted it.

The air in the fitting room changed the second he stepped inside. It thickened, pulsed. My heartbeat kicked hard against my ribs as he came up behind me.

He didn’t say a word.

Just reached out and touched the zipper.

His fingers brushed my bare back—warm, rough, electric.

I froze. Every muscle in my body tensed, but I couldn’t move. His touch was light, careful, but it set something wild off inside me.

He pulled the zipper up slowly, the sound echoing in the small room.

Each inch of movement made my breath catch.

He was too close. I could feel his breath against my neck. I used to think he didn’t feel anything—that nothing got through that cold exterior. But right then, I knew I was wrong.

He felt it.

The tension. The heat. The storm between us.

And yet, he didn’t step back.

Neither did I.

When he finished zipping me up, his hand stayed there, resting against my spine. A soft touch. Barely there. But it burned.

Our breathing matched—sharp, uneven.

I didn’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was the desperate need to feel something other than pain.

But I turned.

Slowly.

And suddenly, we were staring at each other.

His eyes caught mine—dark, unreadable, and burning with something I didn’t dare name.

I didn’t even realize I’d moved until my chest brushed against his.

The world blurred. The tension snapped.

And before either of us knew it, our lips collided.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was chaos—hungry, desperate, raw.

I grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that made my knees weak. His hands came up to my waist, strong and sure, pulling me flush against him.

It felt like a fight. Like war. Like release.

I moaned into his mouth, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming, demanding.

His control snapped first.

His hand found the zipper again, dragging it down in one smooth motion. The sound was loud, reckless, sinful.

The dress slipped.

He lifted me effortlessly, setting me down on the edge of the dressing table. My legs wrapped around his waist before I could think.

His lips left mine, trailing down my jaw, my neck. I tilted my head back as he kissed lower, lower, until his mouth reached my breasts.

He tugged down the straps, baring me completely. My breath caught as his lips closed around my nipple, hot and wet.

A soft cry escaped me.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him there, my body trembling under his touch. Every nerve burned, every thought vanished.

For that one moment, there was no pain, no grief, no revenge. Just heat. Just him.

He moved to the other side, his tongue flicking, teasing, drawing another moan from me.

“Alessandro…” I whispered, half plea, half warning.

He answered with a deep groan, the sound vibrating against my skin.

My body arched into his. I couldn’t stop myself.

And then—

A voice.

“Miss Moretti?”

The world froze.

One of the staff. Right outside the curtain.

It was like someone had poured ice water over us.

We both went still. His breath hitched. I felt his muscles tense beneath my hands.

Reality slammed back hard.

I looked down—bare, trembling, flushed. He was still between my legs, his hands on my hips, his mouth just inches from my skin.

Panic surged.

He stepped back first, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. I slid off the table, quickly pulling the straps back up, zipping the dress halfway, trying to breathe.

The silence between us was deafening.

I couldn’t even look at him.

The door opened slightly, the attendant’s voice soft. “Miss Aria, we brought a few more dresses if you’d like to—oh! I’m sorry!”

She froze, realizing she’d walked into something private.

I turned away, pretending to fix my hair. “It’s fine,” I said quickly, forcing calm into my voice. “Leave them there.”

When the door clicked shut again, I finally dared to look at Alessandro.

His face was a mask—cold, emotionless, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just had his mouth on my skin seconds ago.

I hated that.

I hated how easily he hid it.

How easily he made me feel like I was the only one who’d lost control.

“This,” I said quietly, still shaking, “will never happen again.”

He met my eyes, his voice flat, cutting. “Never.”

The word hit like a slap.

I swallowed hard. “Good. Because the next time you touch me…” I forced the words out, my throat tight. “…I’ll kill you.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

But there was something in his eyes—a flash, quick and dark—that made my breath catch again.

He nodded once. “Understood.”

I turned away, zipping up the dress with trembling fingers.

The silence between us was thick and suffocating. My heart was still racing, my skin still burning where he’d touched me.

I hated it.

I hated him.

And worst of all… I hated myself.

Because no matter how much I wanted to deny it—I knew I’d be the one to cross the line first again.