Chapter 7: Morning After
The first thing he noticed was the silence. Not the empty silence of the apartment, but a deep, liquid quiet, broken only by the slow rhythm of breathing. His own, and another’s. The second thing was the weight—warm and solid and utterly familiar—draped across his chest.
Luca opened his eyes. The room was bathed in the soft, grey-gold light of a Monaco morning, the sun struggling through a thin maritime haze. He was in his own bed. The memories assembled themselves slowly, calmly: the movie credits rolling, her breathing deepening against his side, the careful, silent journey from couch to bedroom, lifting her without waking her. She’d mumbled something into his neck, her arms locking around him, and he’d simply laid down with her, letting the deep weariness claim them both.
And now she was awake.
He could feel it in the change in her breathing, in the absolute stillness of her body. He kept his own breathing even, feigning sleep, curious. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, one arm flung across his stomach. For a long moment, she didn’t move.
Then, a touch. Light as a thought. The very tips of her fingers, tracing the line of his jaw from chin to ear. It was a mapping, a study. Her touch drifted over the stubble, across the pulse point in his throat, over the swell of his bottom lip. It was devoid of demand, full of a quiet, wondering reverence.
He couldn’t pretend anymore. His eyes opened, meeting hers.
She didn’t startle. She just watched him, her brown eyes wide and clear in the morning light. There was no trace of yesterday’s storm in them, only a calm, profound focus. Her fingers paused, resting just beside his mouth.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey.” His voice was rough with sleep.
“You have a scar here,” she said, her fingertip brushing a tiny, silvered line near his temple. “From your karting days. The one you said you got from a loose bolt.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything you tell me.”
The admission hung between them, simple and devastating. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. The question was there, not spoken, but vibrating in the scant inches of air that separated them.
He didn’t close the distance. He let her lead. This was her star to follow.
She shifted, rising up on one elbow. The sheet pooled around her waist, his old Harvard shirt slipping off one shoulder. Her dark curls were a wild, beautiful mess. She leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to turn away.
He stayed perfectly still.
Her lips brushed his once, a testing touch. Soft. Uncertain. She pulled back a millimeter, searching his face. What she found there—the raw, open devotion, the absolute surrender—made her breath catch.
She kissed him again.
This time, it was real. It was slow and deep and sweet, tasting of sleep and forgiveness and a decade of suppressed want. Her hand came up to cradle his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek. His own hand rose to the nape of her neck, his fingers sliding into her curls, holding her not as a possession, but as an anchor. He poured everything into that kiss—all the patience, the frustration, the secret years of love. She met him with a sigh that seemed to come from the very core of her, her body melting into his.
It was several long, dizzying minutes before they parted, their foreheads resting together, breathing the same air.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word a shaky exhalation against his lips.
“Okay?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her eyebrow.
“That was… a good next star.”
He laughed, a low, joyful sound that shook his chest. “Just good?”
“Shut up.” She kissed him again, quicker this time, a punctuation mark. “It was astronomical. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He grinned, then sobered. “We don’t have to… the world isn’t waiting. We can just be here.”
She shook her head, her curls tickling his face. “The world is always waiting for you, Luca. It’s my job to know that.” She sat up fully, the practical part of her mind visibly clicking back into gear, but now it was fused with a new, soft light. “You have that charity board conference call at eleven. Your trainer will be here at one, and you rescheduled the sponsorship lunch to three.”
He groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. “You’re a cruel woman, Benali. A man reveals his heart and you immediately talk about schedules.”
“You revealed your heart years ago, you idiot. I just finally decided to look at it.” She swung her legs out of bed, the shirt riding up her thighs. “And your heart has a very tight Tuesday. So up. I’ll make coffee.”
He watched her pad barefoot out of the bedroom, a sense of surreal euphoria swelling in his chest. It wasn’t a dramatic change. It was a settling. A lock clicking into place.
By the time he showered and emerged in jeans and a worn henley, the scent of coffee and something buttery filled the apartment. She was in his kitchen, which was a minor miracle. Aya didn’t cook; she orchestrated sustenance. But there she was, flipping a golden crepe in a pan, two already stacked on a plate.
“You’re cooking.”
“I’m heating batter. Don’t get sentimental,” she said, but a small smile played on her lips. She was dressed in the clothes he’d left out for her last night, her hair twisted up in a messy knot. She looked like home.
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. She leaned back into him, a quiet hum of contentment in her throat. “What’s the occasion?”
“You kissed me like that, I figured you deserved more than burnt toast.” She expertly slid the crepe onto the plate. “There’s Nutella. And lemon. And sugar. Your options are vast.”
They ate at the kitchen island, shoulders touching. He went for Nutella; she preferred just lemon. The conversation was easy, drifting from the awful movie to a stupid story about a sponsor’s pompous assistant. The familiar rhythm was there, their oldest friendship, but beneath it now ran a new current, electric and serene.
His phone buzzed on the countertop. The screen lit up with the name of his team principal, Marco.
The real world, intruding.
Aya’s eyes flicked to the phone, then to his face. Her professional mask didn’t slam down, but he saw the slight tightening around her eyes, the infinitesimal straightening of her spine. She was preparing to be his PA again.
He put his hand over hers before she could speak. “Ignore it.”
“Luca, it’s Marco. On a Tuesday. It’s important.”
“It’s always important.” He picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the ignore button. He looked at her—really looked at her. “This is important, too. Here. This.”
She held his gaze, a war playing out in her eyes: duty against desire, habit against this frightening, new hope. She took a deep breath, and then she gently pried the phone from his fingers.
She answered it. “Marco. Good morning.” Her voice was smooth, professional, but her free hand found Luca’s, lacing their fingers together on the cool marble. “Yes, he’s here. He’s just finishing breakfast. I’ll have him call you back in ten minutes.” A pause. She listened, her brow furrowing slightly. “Understood. Yes, I’ll ensure he’s briefed. Ten minutes.”
She ended the call and set the phone down. “They want to move the Silverstone sim session. There’s a problem with the data from the last test. They need you this afternoon.”
The schedule, the eternal master, reasserting itself.
Luca squeezed her hand. “Okay. So we have,” he checked the clock on the oven, “exactly two hours and forty-seven minutes before the real world officially kicks the door in.”
A true smile broke across her face then, brilliant and unreserved. “What’s the agenda for that time, Mr. Moretti?”
He stood, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. “I was thinking we could go back to bed. Not to sleep. Just to… explore the new geography.”
She looped her arms around his neck, her expression turning mischievous. “Is that a logistical term?”
“It’s a very important strategic reconnaissance mission,” he said, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Critical path analysis. Requires hands-on review.”
“Well,” she sighed, feigning reluctance as she let him lead her back toward the bedroom, “if it’s critical path, I suppose my schedule is clear.”
The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the morning, the phone, the waiting world. The unmade bed from their simple sleep looked different now—a landscape of possibility. The morning light cut a sharp diagonal across the rumpled sheets, illuminating dust motes dancing in the quiet air.
He turned her to face him, his hands firm on her hips. The playful energy from the kitchen had condensed into something heavier, more intent. His green eyes held hers, searching for and finding the clear, conscious ‘yes’ she had given him in the dark hours before dawn.
“Last chance to check the schedule,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.
“The schedule is you,” she said, her voice steady but soft. “Only you.”
That was all he needed. His kiss wasn’t like the gentle exploration from before. It was deep and claiming, a hungry reaffirmation of everything they’d just confessed. She opened for him instantly, a small sound catching in her throat as her hands fisted in the fabric of his henley. He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the mattress.
He broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard. “My shirt,” he said, his voice gravel. “Off.”
She obeyed, pulling the soft cotton over her head in one fluid motion and letting it fall to the floor. The morning light loved her skin, tracing the dip of her waist, the curve of her breasts in her simple underwear. She reached for him, but he caught her wrists.
“Ah-ah. Your job is right there.” He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. “Stay soft. Stay pretty. Let me look at you.” He said it like a command, but his gaze was reverent. He knelt, pushing her thighs apart to stand between them. “I’ve imagined this. So many fucking times.”
He leaned in and took her mouth again, one hand tangling in her hair to tip her head back. The other hand swept up her ribcage, his thumb brushing roughly over her nipple through the lace of her bra. She gasped into his mouth, her back arching. “Luca.”
“Tell me you want this.” He bit down gently on her lower lip. “I need to hear the words, Aya.”
“I want this. I want you.” Her words were a rush, tumbling out. “Please, god, stop being so thorough and just fuck me.”
A raw, dark laugh escaped him. “Thorough is what I do.” He made quick work of her bra, clasp giving way under his practiced fingers. He drew back to look at her, his expression hardening with pure want. “Perfect. You are so fucking perfect.”
He bent his head and took her breast into his mouth, hot and wet and relentless. His tongue circled her nipple, then sucked hard. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, not to guide but to cling. He switched to the other, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand palming and kneading the sensitive flesh he’d just abandoned. She was panting, little pleas falling from her lips in a mix of English and breathless Arabic.
He pushed her back onto the bed, following her down, his body covering hers. The weight of him, the sheer reality of his arousal pressing against her through their clothes, shattered the last of her thoughts. He kissed a burning trail down her stomach, his fingers hooking in the waistband of her shorts and underwear, dragging them down her legs in one sharp motion.
He tossed them aside and settled between her spread thighs. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed his mouth to her, his tongue finding her center in a long, slow, filthy lick that made her whole body jerk.
“Oh, fuck,” she sobbed, her heels digging into the sheets.
He held her hips down, anchoring her as he ate her with a single-minded intensity that felt like a revelation. This wasn’t the tender care from the balcony. This was hunger. He used his tongue, his lips, the edge of his teeth in a way that had her climbing ruthlessly toward a peak within minutes. He was mapping her, learning what made her thighs tremble and what made her choke on his name.
“I’m… Luca, I’m going to—” The warning was a shattered thing.
He growled against her, the vibration tipping her over. She came with a broken scream, her back bowing off the mattress, her hands scrabble at the sheets. He rode it out with her, his grip unyielding, until the last tremors subsided and she fell back, boneless and gasping.
He moved up her body, kissing the damp skin of her stomach, her sternum, the frantic pulse at her throat. He was still fully dressed, a frustrating barrier. She reached for his jeans, fumbling with the button.
“Let me,” he said, pushing her hands away. He stood beside the bed, his eyes locked on her as he stripped. His henley. His jeans. His boxer briefs. He freed himself, and her breath hitched. He was thick and fully hard, the tip glistening. The tattoos she knew so well snaked over the tense muscles of his abdomen and thighs.
He came back to her, covering her body with his. The feel of his bare skin against hers, everywhere, was almost too much. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
“Look at me,” he commanded, nudging at her entrance.
Her brown eyes, dazed with pleasure, found his. He pushed inside her with one slow, inexorable thrust. They both groaned, a raw, unison sound of completion. He filled her completely, a perfect, stretching fit that stole the air from her lungs.
“Cristo,” he choked out, his forehead dropping to hers. “Aya.”
He didn’t move, letting them both adjust to the seismic reality of it. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck, holding him as close as possible. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, echoing his words from her bath. “I’ve got you.”
That undid him. He began to move.
His pace was relentless from the start, deep, driving strokes that pushed the breath from her body with every impact. He shifted her hips, angling himself to go deeper, to hit a spot that made her see bursts of white light. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, the creak of the bedframe.
“You feel like heaven,” he gritted out, his control fraying. “Tighter. So fucking tight for me.” He hooked an arm under her knee, hiking her leg higher, opening her wider. The change in angle was devastating. She cried out, her nails scoring down his back.
“Is that it? Does that make you come apart?” His voice was dark, rough with strain. “Tell me.”
“Yes! Right there, please, don’t stop.” She was fragmenting, the coil of a second climax winding impossibly tight inside her. She was soft and pliant beneath him, as he’d asked, letting him set the pace, take the control, dominate the space between them. She was just feeling, drowning in the sensation of him.
He was watching her face, drinking in every whimper, every clenched eyelid. “Come for me again. I need to feel it.” He drove into her harder, faster, his own release looming. “Come on, principessa. Let go.”
It broke over her like a wave, violent and consuming. Her inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, a milking pressure that pulled a roar from his throat. He pistoned into her twice more, deep, jarring thrusts, and then he was coming too, his entire body locking as he spilled himself inside her with a guttural cry of her name.
He collapsed, catching his weight on his forearms, his face buried in the curve of her neck. Their hearts hammered against each other, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly easing. The scent of sex and sweat and sandalwood oil filled the air.
He softened inside her but didn’t pull away. He just breathed her in, his lips moving softly against her damp skin. She ran her hands over the sweat-slick planes of his back, tracing the ink and the faint ridges of old scars.
A distant buzzing sound filtered through the haze. His phone, vibrating on the kitchen counter. Marco. The simulator session. The world.
Luca didn’t lift his head. “Fuck the schedule.”
Aya laughed, a breathy, spent sound. “You’ll pay for that later.”
“Worth it,” he mumbled, finally lifting himself to look at her. He brushed a curl stuck to her cheek. “Every second.”
He rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her close. The sun was higher now, a bold stripe of gold across their tangled legs. The phone eventually stopped buzzing.