The Aston purred into the private underground garage of Lorenzo’s building, the tires whispering over polished concrete as the automatic gate sealed shut behind them with a low, final hum. The space was vast and empty at this hour—only the low amber security lights casting long shadows across the rows of sleek cars that belonged to a man who collected power the way others collected art.
Lorenzo killed the engine, the sudden silence deafening.
Lily was half-asleep against the passenger door, head lolled to the side, lips parted, breath slow and warm. The short black dress she’d worn to the bar had ridden scandalously high during the drive, the hem barely covering the lace tops of her stockings, exposing miles of smooth, toned thigh that gleamed in the soft dashboard glow. His coat still draped over her shoulders, swallowing her frame, but it had fallen open, revealing the deep plunge of her neckline, the way the thin fabric clung to her breasts, nipples tight against the chill and the lingering heat of his body from when he’d carried her.
He sat motionless for a long moment, hands still on the wheel, staring at her.
She was drunk.
Hurting.
And so fucking beautiful it was painful.
He couldn’t take her to her apartment.
Not tonight.
Not when she was like this—vulnerable, raw, carrying his sins in her blood.
He needed her close.
Needed to watch over her.
Needed… more than he had any right to.
He got out, the cold air of the garage doing nothing to cool the fire under his skin. Rounded the car. Opened her door.
She stirred as he leaned in, the scent of her—vodka, flowers, warm woman—hitting him like a drug.
“Lorenzo?” she murmured, eyes fluttering open, glassy and dark.
“We’re home,” he said, voice low, rough.
She didn’t ask whose home.
Just let him lift her again—arms sliding under her knees and back, pulling her against his chest. She was soft, pliant, her body molding to his as if it had never forgotten how they fit. Her head fell to his shoulder, face tucked into his neck, lips brushing his skin with every exhale—warm, wet, unintentional.
He groaned softly, the sound rumbling in his chest.
She felt it.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, nails scraping lightly over fabric, sending sparks straight to his groin.
The elevator ride was torture.
Private, direct to the penthouse.
He leaned against the mirrored wall, holding her close, her thighs draped over his forearm, dress riding higher until he could feel the heat of her through the thin lace between her legs brushing his wrist. Her hips shifted—restless, seeking—and the soft curve of her ass pressed against his arm.
He was hard.
Painfully.
She knew.
Her breath hitched against his throat, lips parting on a soft sigh that made his cock twitch.
“You’re warm,” she whispered, nuzzling closer, thigh sliding higher on his arm.
He bit back a curse.
The doors opened to the penthouse—dark, vast, city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows like a private galaxy.
He carried her through the living room, past the untouched whiskey, straight to the master bedroom.
The bed was king-sized, black silk sheets turned down, moonlight spilling across it in silver sheets.
He laid her down gently—too gently—but she clung to him, arms around his neck, pulling him down with her.
“Don’t go,” she breathed, eyes half-open, dark and pleading.
His body covered hers for a heartbeat—hard muscle against soft curves, his thigh sliding between hers instinctively, pressing against the heat he could feel even through fabric.
She moaned—soft, desperate—hips rolling up to meet him.
He felt how wet she was.
Felt it soak through lace and trousers.
His control frayed.
He kissed her forehead—chaste, reverent—then her temple, her cheek, lingering at the corner of her mouth.
“Sleep,” he rasped, voice strained. “You’re safe.”
She whimpered when he pulled back, fingers clutching his shirt.
He stayed on the edge of the bed, removing her heels slowly—one, then the other—thumbs stroking her arches, making her sigh. Then his coat from her shoulders, draping it over a chair.
She watched him, eyes heavy, body restless.
He pulled the covers over her, tucking her in.
But she caught his hand.
“Stay,” she whispered.
He did.
Sat beside her, back against the headboard, her head in his lap.
His fingers threaded through her hair—slow, soothing strokes.
She fell asleep like that.
Breath evening out.
Body relaxing.
Trusting him, even drunk.
Even hurting.
He stayed awake.
Watching her.
The rise and fall of her chest.
The way her lips parted.
The way her dress had ridden up, exposing the lace between her thighs.
His cock ached.
His heart ached more.
He wouldn’t take her tonight.
But he would keep her.
And tomorrow—when she was sober, when she could choose—he would show her exactly what it meant to be his.
No more running.
No more silence.
Just them.
And the fire they’d both been denying for too long.
She was asleep on his chest, her body a warm, trusting weight that pinned him to the bed more effectively than any chain ever could.
The penthouse bedroom was vast and dark, moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows in cold silver sheets across the black silk sheets. The city glittered far below, indifferent and distant, while the only sounds were the soft hush of her breathing against his throat and the low thrum of his own pulse in his ears.
Lily had passed out almost the moment her head touched his chest—alcohol and exhaustion finally claiming her. Her dark hair fanned across his shirt like spilled ink, strands tickling his skin with every slow exhale. One of her hands lay curled over his heart, fingers loose in sleep, as if even unconscious she needed to hold on. Her legs were tangled with his, the short black dress still bunched high on her thighs from the ride up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings and the smooth, warm expanse of skin above. The soft swell of her breast pressed against his ribs with every breath, nipple a tight point against the thin fabric, rising and falling in a rhythm that matched the slow, torturous throb in his cock.
He hadn’t undressed her.
Had barely touched her beyond what was necessary to make her comfortable.
But every inch of her body against his was a torment.
He could feel the heat of her core through the thin lace between her legs, resting against his thigh where she had shifted in sleep. The faint dampness there—whether from the bar’s heat or the way she had responded to him earlier—made his jaw clench and his hands fist in the sheets. Her scent surrounded him: crushed flowers from the shop, the sharp bite of vodka lingering on her breath, and beneath it all the warm, intoxicating musk of her skin, her arousal, her.
His shirt was open where she had tugged at it in the elevator, her fingers fumbling in drunken need. Her cheek rested against his bare chest now, lips brushing his skin with every exhale—soft, wet, open. He could feel the faint flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way her body relaxed completely into his, trusting him even in sleep.
He didn’t deserve it.
The guilt was a living thing, gnawing at him from the inside.
He had done this to her.
Pushed her to this edge with his silence, his absence, his cowardice.
And now she lay here—vulnerable, beautiful, broken because of him—her body seeking his even as her heart bled.
His hand moved without permission, sliding slowly up her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine through the thin dress. She sighed in sleep, arching slightly into his touch, pressing her breast more firmly against him. The movement made her thigh slide higher on his, the lace of her panties brushing his skin, and he bit back a groan.
He was hard—painfully, relentlessly.
Had been since the bar.
Since the kiss.
Since the moment he’d felt her melt against him for that single, perfect heartbeat.
He wanted to wake her.
Wanted to roll her beneath him, spread her thighs, taste her until she sobbed his name. Wanted to sink into her slow and deep, feel her clench around him, watch her eyes flutter open in the moonlight as he claimed her completely.
But he didn’t.
He stayed still, one hand in her hair, stroking slowly, the other resting on her hip—thumb tracing small, soothing circles over the lace edge of her dress.
Because she was drunk.
Because she was hurting.
Because the next time he took her—and God, there would be a next time—he wanted her sober.
Wanted her choosing.
Wanted her begging.
So he held her.
Let her sleep on his chest, unconscious and trusting.
Let the guilt and desire war inside him.
Let the night stretch on, slow and torturous.
And in the quiet, with her body soft and warm against his, he made a silent vow.
He would fix this.
He would earn her.
He would never let her go again.
Even if it meant burning everything else to the ground to keep her.
She shifted in sleep, murmuring something incoherent—his name, maybe—and pressed closer.
He closed his eyes, breathing her in.
And held her tighter.
The storm could wait until morning.
Tonight, he would just hold her.
And let the fire build.
The penthouse bedroom was wrapped in a hush so complete it felt sacred, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of Lily’s breathing against Lorenzo’s chest and the distant, indifferent hum of the city far below. Moonlight poured through the uncovered windows, silver and cold, painting her sleeping form in ethereal light: dark hair spilled across his shirt like silk, one bare leg draped over his thigh, the hem of her black dress still bunched high enough to reveal the lace edge of her stockings and the smooth, warm curve where thigh met hip. Her hand rested over his heart, fingers curled loosely, as if even in sleep she needed to hold on to something solid.
Lorenzo hadn’t moved in hours.
He lay on his back, one arm wrapped possessively around her waist, the other threaded through her hair, stroking slowly, absently, as though the motion was the only thing keeping him anchored. His shirt was open where she had tugged at it earlier, her cheek pressed to the bare skin of his chest, lips brushing him with every exhale—soft, warm, maddening. He could feel the faint dampness of her tears dried there, the salt of her pain mingling with the floral scent that clung to her skin.
His body was a battlefield.
Guilt tore at him—raw, relentless—for the way he had left her, for the months of silence that had driven her to this: drunk, dancing like she was trying to outrun her own heart, collapsing into his arms because she had nothing left. Desire burned hotter—possessive, consuming—for the way she fit against him, soft and trusting even unconscious, her body seeking his warmth instinctively. Every small shift she made in sleep pressed her closer: the soft weight of her breast against his ribs, the heat between her thighs brushing his leg, the way her fingers flexed against his skin like she was dreaming of holding him tighter.
He wanted to wake her.
Wanted to roll her beneath him, kiss the tears from her cheeks, slide the dress from her body inch by inch, taste every inch of skin he had denied himself for so long. Wanted to spread her thighs and bury himself deep, feel her clench around him, hear her cry his name—not in anger, but in surrender. Wanted to mark her, claim her, brand her as his until she forgot every moment of pain he had caused.
But he didn’t.
He held her.
Let the guilt and desire war inside him until his chest ached with it.
Let the night stretch on, slow and merciless.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand—sharp, insistent.
He reached for it carefully, not wanting to disturb her.
Matteo.
He answered on the second buzz, voice low, rough.
“What?”
Matteo’s chuckle came through, lazy and laced with that familiar sarcasm.
“Well, hello to you too, Romeo. Rough night rescuing damsels from their own bad decisions?”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. Lily shifted in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent, her leg sliding higher on his thigh.
“She’s here,” he said quietly. “Safe. Sleeping.”
A pause.
Then Matteo’s voice, lighter but still sharp. “Ah. The knight in shining Armani strikes again. Sofia’s been worried sick about her best friend. Wanted to know if Lily made it home okay or if some dark, brooding stranger kidnapped her for noble reasons.”
Lorenzo’s fingers tightened in Lily’s hair, grounding himself.
“Tell Sofia she’s fine.”
Matteo laughed softly. “Oh, I will. But you know Sofia she’ll want details. Like, is fine meaning passed out on your couch, or fine meaning passed out in your bed with your coat still on her like a claiming flag?”
Lorenzo’s voice dropped to a warning growl. “Matteo.”
“Relax, cousin. I’m just the messenger. Though I have to say bringing her to your lair instead of her apartment? Bold move. Very caveman. Very ‘she’s mine now, back off.’”
Lorenzo glanced down at Lily—her face peaceful in sleep, lips swollen from crying and from the kiss he’d stolen earlier, body soft and trusting against his.
“She is,” he said, voice low, absolute.
Matteo whistled. “Possessive much? Careful, Lorenzo. That kind of talk gets a man in trouble. Especially when the woman in question spent the night trying to dance you out of her system.”
The words landed like a fresh cut.
Lorenzo’s chest tightened.
“I know what I did.”
“Do you?” Matteo’s sarcasm softened, just slightly. “Because Sofia’s worried. And when Sofia worries, she gets sharp. She wanted to come over herself, but I told her you’d probably shoot the doorman if anyone else showed up tonight.”
Lorenzo exhaled slowly.
“Tell her Lily’s safe. I’ll have her call in the morning.”
Matteo paused.
Then, quieter: “You really fucked this up, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Good luck fixing it, then. You’re going to need it.”
The call ended.
Lorenzo set the phone aside.
Lily sighed in her sleep, burrowing closer, her hand sliding across his chest, fingers brushing his nipple accidentally.
He bit back a groan.
Held her tighter.
And let the emotional storm rage on inside him—guilt, desire, fear, love—all twisted together.
She was here. In his bed. In his arms.
And tomorrow, when she woke sober and remembered everything, he would face whatever came.
Even if it meant losing her all over again.
But he would fight for her.
With everything he had. Because Lily was worth it. And he was done letting her go.
