Amore mio 2

73.

Her.

I reached out, my hand sliding across smooth sheets, and instantly pouted. The empty, cold space beside me told me exactly what I already knew: Leo had slipped out of bed. 

Lately, waking up without him was becoming unbearable. I craved his warmth, the feel of his strong arms pulling me close, his lips brushing against my skin. Morning cuddles weren't just a sweet luxury anymore—they were a necessity. 

Our twins and I needed those cuddles.

I sighed, kicking off the covers, the lingering traces of sleep still clinging to my body.

Wearing only his black boxer briefs, I padded barefoot across the room, finding his black shirt draped over a chair. I lifted it, the scent of him instantly flooding my senses—his warmth, spicy cologne, so intoxicating and familiar. I slipped the oversized shirt on, the fabric soft against my bare skin, but it couldn't replace him. I needed more than the smell of him. I needed to feel him.

Knowing exactly where he would be, I made my way downstairs, the pout still on my lips as I headed for the gym.

The moment I stepped into the doorway, every bit of sadness melted away, replaced by something else entirely. 

My pulse quickened as my eyes locked onto him.

He had his back to me, doing pull-ups with effortless strength, and Dio, the sight of him made my breath catch in my throat. 

His midnight black hair was messy, dishevelled in that perfect way that only he could pull off. The soft strands were damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead and neck. It was wild and unruly, exactly how I loved it.

But that wasn't the only thing that had my heart racing like crazy.

It was his body. The sight of his sculpted, sun-kissed skin glistening with a sheen of sweat as his muscles strained and flexed. 

My gaze traced the broad, powerful sweep of his shoulders, the way his biceps bulged with each pull-up, the veins in his forearms standing out as his strong hands gripped the bar with a force that was primal, animalistic and dangerous. The definition in his back was breathtaking, each ridge, each groove in his muscles moving with every upward pull, hard and tense, rippling with power. 

His waist tapered down into lean, perfect hips, his shorts hanging low, barely clinging to his chiselled body, no doubt exposing that deep, defined V-line. The curve of his ass, tight and flawless, made me bite my lip. My eyes trailed lower, drinking in the way his strong thighs flexed, muscled and thick, built to carry the weight of his body—and then some.

And that belt...That belt strapped around his waist, holding an extra 50 kilograms, hung between his legs, intensifying the difficulty of the exercise. He wasn't just working out—he was punishing his body, pushing it to its limits, and doing it with that raw, primal power that made my knees buckle. The sight of him lifting that extra weight with ease, every muscle tense and working, made my mouth go dry.

It was raw. It was powerful. It was everything that made me weak for him.

I couldn't look away. Every single pull-up was like watching a sensual dance of strength and control. The way his back arched, the way his muscles clenched and flexed, the way his body moved, so fluid, so powerful, every muscle flexing and releasing with such control, made my heart pound faster. The way sweat dripped down his back, trailing along the ridges of his muscles, only added to the heat bubbling inside me.

He was a living, breathing work of art. 

As Leo completed his final pull-up, my heart raced in anticipation. The moment he unclasped the heavy belt with one hand, it felt like the air was sucked from the room, leaving only the electric tension between us. I was frozen, my breath caught in my throat as I watched the belt drop with a heavy thud. His muscles, still taut from the workout, glistened with sweat, and every drop seemed to highlight the perfection of his body.