Twisted Obsession

65 - His Touch, My Temptation

Athena Luciana Bianchi

The whole car ride back to Lorenzo's estate, I was losing my goddamn mind. Sitting in the backseat of the G-Wagon with him, close enough to smell his cologne but not close enough to touch, was absolute torture. My thighs were clenched, my nails dug crescents into my palm, and I had to pretend to be fucking demure because Antonio was driving. Stoic, loyal Antonio. If he even noticed the way Lorenzo's hand brushed against mine once—or the way my breath hitched—he didn't say a word.

The iron gates finally creaked open and the G-Wagon rolled up the long, winding driveway like a funeral procession. Everything was quiet, too quiet. The moonlight spilled across the pavement in silvery streaks, and my pulse throbbed beneath my skin.

When the car finally stopped, I didn't wait. I needed him.

Lorenzo stepped out first, all brooding elegance and cold calculation, eyes still glued to his phone like he hadn't just been sitting next to a girl going feral for the past thirty minutes.

"Good night, Boss," Antonio said, giving him a nod before reversing down the drive. The gates clanged shut behind him, and the moment we were alone, something inside me snapped.

I crossed the gravel and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him toward me. My lips crashed into his like a match to gasoline. He tasted like smoke and bourbon, danger and possession.

"Mmm." He moaned against my mouth, low and hungry. His hands found my waist, fingers digging in like he didn't care if he bruised me. His tongue slid into my mouth with purpose, hot and wet and reckless. I could feel him—his control, his restraint—fraying at the seams.

I deepened the kiss, pushing him back until his spine hit the front door. My breath hitched as he bit my bottom lip gently, just enough to make me gasp. I felt his smirk against my mouth.

"You couldn't wait, could you?" he murmured, voice rough.

"Shut up," I whispered, tugging him down again.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, grazing the skin of my hips like he owned them—like he owned me.

"I want you," I whispered, my voice trembling with need. "Now."

He pulled away slightly, his lips swollen, his eyes dark. "Inside. Now."

He unlocked the door with steady fingers and yanked me in by the wrist. The heavy wood slammed behind us, echoing through the empty foyer. His mouth was on mine again before I could breathe, and this time there was nothing demure left.

Urgently, I shrug my coat off and let it drop to the marble floor. He mirrors me, tossing his to the side like it means nothing—but our mouths stay locked like we'll die if we separate. His tongue drags across mine, greedy, claiming, and I moan into him, heat pulsing low in my stomach.

His hands slide up my torso, fingers brushing over the swell of my breasts through the thin cotton. Then—rip. My breath catches as he grabs a fistful of my favorite button-up and tears it open without hesitation. I hear the satisfying pop-pop-pop of buttons flying, bouncing off the floor, skittering somewhere into the dark. Fabric slips off my shoulders and arms like silk, and I'm suddenly so exposed—bare skin glowing under the dim light of the foyer, chest heaving.

I don't care. Not with the way he's looking at me. Like he wants to ruin me. Like I know he's going to.

My fingers fumble with the clasp of my trousers, breath shaking, but before I can finish, his hands are already there—rough, impatient—and he yanks them down past my hips, past my thighs. They fall with a soft thud around my ankles, leaving me in just my panties and heels. My cheeks burn with heat, but it's not embarrassing. It's hunger. Lust. The way his eyes trail down me like he's memorizing every inch.