Chapter 1: Starlight Deflowering
The city beneath them was a smudge of amber light and distant traffic, a low hum that felt like blood rushing in your ears after too much wine. Up here, on Lorenzo’s rooftop, the world narrowed to the scent of damp rosemary from the terracotta pots and the cool bite of the night air on skin.
Eleonora leaned against the wrought-iron railing, the metal cold through the thin silk of her dress. She could feel him watching her from where he sat in the lone chair, the one he’d dragged out from his apartment below. She didn’t turn. Let him look. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs, but she kept her breathing slow, her gaze fixed on the distant, darkened hills.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Lorenzo said, his voice a rough scrape in the quiet. “It’s late.”
“You say that every time.”
“And you never listen.”
Finally, she turned. He was a silhouette against the string of faded lantern lights, the lines of his body relaxed but alert. An artist’s hands rested on the arms of the chair, fingers stained with dried paint and olive oil. He ran the restaurant downstairs; every part of him smelled of salt and earth and something indefinably his.
“I’m tired of listening,” she said, the words coming out softer than she intended.
He said nothing, just watched her. His silence was a language she was learning. It wasn’t disapproval, not exactly. It was caution, a slow, careful assessment that made her feel both incredibly seen and terribly exposed. He knew about her family, their strictures, their expectations. The good daughter, the quiet one. Up here, she was none of those things.
She pushed off the railing and walked toward him. The old floorboards of the terrace were uneven under her heels. She stopped in front of his chair, close enough that her knees almost brushed his. The moonlight caught the green of his eyes, turning them into something ancient and wild.
“El,” he warned, the single syllable thick with all the things they hadn’t done.
She ignored it. Recklessness was a new flavor on her tongue, and she was addicted. With a move that felt both clumsy and inevitable, she hitched the hem of her dress and straddled his lap. The worn denim of his jeans was rough against her inner thighs. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the solid wall of his chest go rigid.
“Eleonora.” Her full name this time. A last defense.
“I’m not made of glass,” she whispered, her face hovering inches from his. She could see the pulse jumping in his throat. “Stop treating me like I am.”
His hands came up, but they didn’t pull her closer. They settled on her hips, holding her there, a barrier and an anchor all at once. His thumbs rubbed small, absent circles through the silk. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“So show me.”
Something in his expression shattered. The careful restraint he always wore snapped with an almost audible tension. The artist in him vanished, replaced by something far more primal. His grip on her hips tightened, biting into the flesh, and he yanked her down against the hard ridge of his erection. A shocked gasp tore from her throat.
“You want me to show you?” His voice was a dark, guttural thing now. “This is what you get. No romance, no flowers. Just this.”
He crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a conquest. All teeth and desperate, searching tongue. He tasted of bitter espresso and the wild herbs he grew in pots. One of his hands slid from her hip, up her spine, to fist in her long hair, tilting her head back to give him deeper access. The other hand groped its way under her dress, over the lace of her underwear, his palm hot and demanding against her.
She moaned into his mouth, her own hands fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. She got one, two open, before he broke the kiss, breathing ragged.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his forehead resting against hers. “You’re so fucking young.”
“I’m here,” she panted. “I’m right here.”
He stood up, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing. In two long strides, he had her back against the rough stone wall of the rooftop shed, the ancient olive tree casting tangled shadows over them. He didn’t bother with gentleness. He pushed her dress up to her waist, his fingers hooking into the sides of her panties and dragging them down her legs. The night air was cool on her exposed skin.
He unbuttoned his fly, freeing himself. She looked down, her breath catching. He was thick, veined, and utterly erect. The reality of it, of him, was a visceral shock that thrilled and terrified her.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. She dragged her eyes up to his. “This is your last chance. Tell me to stop.”
She shook her head, a frantic little motion. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, lining himself up with her entrance. She was wet, achingly so, but he was so much bigger than her fingers, than anything she’d imagined. He pushed forward, a blunt, relentless pressure, and she cried out, a sharp, fractured sound that tore into the quiet night.
He stilled, buried to the hilt inside her, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, traced a hot path down her temple into her hair.
“Dio, you’re tight,” he groaned, the words strained. “So fucking tight.”
He began to move, short, shallow thrusts that stretched her exquisitely. The initial sting softened, melting into a deeper, building friction that stole the air from her lungs. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his open shirt.
“More,” she heard herself beg, the word a foreign sound.
He gave her more. His thrusts grew longer, harder, driving her back against the stone. Each stroke was a shock of pure sensation, a claiming. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity that wiped every other thought from her mind. The world was the smell of him, the sound of their ragged breathing, the slap of skin, the feel of him filling her, over and over.
“You take it so well,” he grunted, his pace punishing now. “My good girl. Taking every inch.”
His words, filthy and tender, unraveled her. A coil she didn’t know was there tightened deep in her belly, snapping with a violence that made her back arch. She screamed, but his hand was there, his thick fingers stuffing into her mouth, muffling the sound into a choked sob. He fucked her through it, his own release slamming into him moments later. He buried his face in her neck with a ragged groan, pumping into her, his whole body shaking.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant city. He slowly withdrew, the loss of him making her feel hollowed out and shockingly empty. He leaned his forehead against the wall beside her head, his eyes closed.
Silence stretched, heavy and complicated.
He pulled his fingers from her mouth, gently wiping her lips with his thumb. He helped her stand, her legs wobbly. He righted her dress with a surprising tenderness, then fastened his own jeans.
She looked at him, at the rawness in his eyes, and saw the caution had returned, edged now with something like regret. Or fear.
“Lorenzo—” she started.
A sound cut her off. Not from the street below, but from the door to the interior staircase—a sharp, metallic scrape of a key in a lock.
Lorenzo’s head snapped toward it, his body going preternaturally still. His eyes, wide and suddenly alert, locked with hers in the moonlight.
“Merda,” he breathed, the word barely a whisper. “My brother’s key.”