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rated R for mature.
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𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑬 𝑶𝑭 𝑰𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑼𝑺 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒉𝒖𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅𝒚. A man given the gift of flight, only to be consumed by his yearning for freedom and power.
Valentino Rossi, in all his broken brilliance, is a modern-day Icarus—bound to the same insatiable hunger, the same self-destructive spiral, and the same inevitable fall.
But Valentino's descent would not just shatter him—it would destroy everything and everyone in his path. Including me... including our child.
His eyes burned with an aching intensity that sent a jolt of anticipation through me. The shift in his energy was sudden, electric, and before I could fully grasp it, his arms were around me.
With a strength that felt both effortless and deliberate, he swept me off the couch, holding me close as if the distance between us was something he could no longer endure.
I felt weightless in his grasp, his touch firm yet impossibly gentle, as if I were something fragile—precious in a way words couldn't capture. A soft gasp slipped from my lips, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy, but resistance was the last thing on my mind.
The warmth of his body seeped into mine, overwhelming my senses as I instinctively looped my arms around his neck.
His movements were unhurried, every step down the hallway deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this moment.
The penthouse air felt colder against my skin compared to the heat blazing between us, and the tension in his muscles was unmistakable—taut, controlled, like a predator on the edge of unleashing its power.
My heart pounded in rhythm with his, the anticipation swirling in the air as he pushed open the door to his room. The dim light of the single lamp inside cast a soft glow over everything, the scent of him—woodsy, masculine, utterly intoxicating—pulling me deeper into the moment.
He laid me on the bed with deliberate care, the cool silk sheets brushing against my overheated skin, making me shiver. But all I could focus on was him. The way he stood over me, his chest rising and falling with a quiet intensity that mirrored my own.
His golden eyes, usually guarded and unreadable, were now dilated, blazing with a hunger that stole the air from my lungs. He wasn't merely looking at me—no, he was devouring me, tracing every curve of my body, every rise and fall of my breath, as if he were imprinting me into his memory, etching me into the very fabric of his existence.
