"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
FIRST BIT IS SMUT BUT IF THAT'S NOT YOUR THING, SKIP AND READ THE REST. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO THE PLOT.
-"You dance with the Devil but keep asking why you are in hell."-
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She stirred faintly under the thick black sheets, one leg kicked out in sleep, hair fanned across the pillow in obsidian waves. The bedroom was dim, quiet, but not still. The kind of silence that came before something.
Kaia felt the shift before she heard it. The mattress dipped behind her. Heat at her back. The barest graze of fingertips along her hipbone, beneath the sheet.
"Luca?" she whispered, still half-dreaming.
His voice was already in her ear, low and rasped from sleep. "Couldn't."
Her brows pinched faintly.
"Sleep," he clarified. "Couldn't sleep."
His hand slid over her waist, then lower, anchoring her. She was still, not out of fear—but because something about the way he touched her made stillness feel sacred.
Kaia rolled onto her back, eyes meeting his in the dark. A slow ache spread low in her belly, trailing through her thighs like a fire that had long since burned out but left its embers behind. Her hips throbbed with dull insistence, each pulse a reminder. The muscles in her legs were tight and sore, stretched from being pushed too far, too many times. Even the curve of her spine ached where it had arched against him hours ago.
She breathed in—then winced slightly.
Her skin still felt too raw to stretch. Her chest was tender. Her inner thighs carried the heat of friction, a faint sting where pleasure had blurred into ruin.
She couldn't move. Not properly.
Everything felt heavy. Loosened. Ruined and reassembled. She lay boneless in the sheets, heat still clinging to her body. And even in that half-asleep fog, her mind registered the soreness in specific places—her inner hips, her neck where he'd kissed too hard, the backs of her knees.
It burned. Not sharply. Not painfully. But deeply. A possessive ache. A stamp left behind.
Her fingers shifted weakly along the sheet beside her—reaching, almost instinctively. But his warmth was already there, hovering above, breathing steady and slow. Watching her. Waiting.
And she didn't even have the strength to pretend she wasn't his.
Luca loomed above her now, one arm braced beside her head, the other sweeping a strand of dark hair off her face. His tattoos looked like shadows carved across his chest in the moonlight. The jagged scar near his clavicle moved slightly with his breath. She traced it with her eyes, not her fingers.
