❝Book 1 in the 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 series
He spreads my folds wide, his hungry mouth latching onto my clit, sucking hard and licking expertly. My hips move on their own, riding his face as soft whimpers escape me.
Just when I think I can't take any more, he...
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P A R I S
Luciano decided this morning that my ankle was "good enough" for school again. Apparently, "good enough" means I no longer get the royal treatment of being spoiled, doted on, and kept under constant watch like some fragile porcelain doll.
Which, if you ask me, is a tragedy.
When my ankle was bad, I had his full attention—carrying me around like I weighed nothing, making my breakfast, keeping me company in the kitchen, even bringing me snacks without me asking. Now? One limp-free step and suddenly I'm "independent" again.
"Pack your bag. You're going."
That was the first thing out of his mouth this morning. No hello, no coffee for me, just him leaning in the doorway of my room with his arms crossed like a prison warden, steam curling from the mug in his hand. I'd given him my best wounded look, throwing in a dramatic little limp for effect.
"It still hurts." I said, layering on the pout.
He'd raised an eyebrow in that way that said he'd already caught me.
"Funny," he drawled. "You walked to the fridge last night just fine when you wanted ice cream."
Busted.
Now I'm stuck in class, swinging my leg under the desk, feeling both bored and sulky. The ache in my ankle is faint—nothing compared to before—but the ache of losing Luciano's undivided attention? That's unbearable.
The lecture drones on, some endless rambling about supply and demand, and my pen moves lazily over my notebook. I'm not taking notes, just filling the margins with little shapes and flowers while my mind drifts where it always does when I'm bored.
Luciano.
My heart gives that familiar ache, and without meaning to, I'm pulled into a memory.
It was a chilly Saturday morning, the kind where the sun is out but the air still bites just enough to make you want to stay wrapped in blankets.
I'd failed my driving test the month before—again—which wasn't exactly a confidence booster. Dad tried to help by running practice sessions every day after school, going over the routes, the rules, the stupid little details that make or break a test. His voice was patient but firm as he pointed out every mistake I made. But that morning, he was bedridden with the flu and couldn't make it.
So, Luciano showed up instead, looking like some grumpy substitute teacher with zero patience for my nerves.
He didn't bother with a smile or any of that cheerleader nonsense. In fact, his usual grumpy glare was in full force as he stood by the passenger's side in that dark shirt of his, arms crossed like he was doing me a huge favor by even showing up.
