Lily stirred against him, her body soft and sated, skin flushed and glowing in the aftermath of everything he had done to her. She pressed a lazy kiss to his chest, right over his heart, then sighed with exaggerated contentment.
“I need a shower,” she murmured, voice husky from moaning his name. “I’m sticky everywhere.”
Lorenzo’s arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, his hand sliding possessively over the curve of her ass. “No,” he growled against her hair, lips brushing her temple. “I’m not letting you out of this bed. Not for a second. I just got you back—I’m keeping you here until you forget how to walk.”
She laughed—low, throaty, the sound sending fresh heat straight to his cock. “You’re insatiable.”
“For you?” He nipped her earlobe, voice rough. “Always.”
She wriggled free anyway, slipping from his grasp with a teasing smile, naked and unashamed as she stood beside the bed. Her body was a masterpiece of his making—marks on her neck and breasts, thighs still trembling slightly, the faint sheen of sweat and arousal glistening between them. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyes dark with lingering want.
“You’ll survive five minutes without me,” she said, voice playful but laced with heat. “Besides, if you want round… four? I need to be clean enough for you to ruin me again.”
His cock twitched at the promise.
He watched her walk to the en-suite bathroom—hips swaying, ass marked with his handprints, the way she moved like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
The shower started moments later, steam curling out from under the door.
He lay there a moment longer, breathing her in from the sheets, then stood—naked, unashamed, body hard and marked by her nails.
He pulled on low-slung sweatpants, nothing else, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
The penthouse was quiet, morning light flooding the open space. He moved with purpose—eggs, smoked salmon, fresh berries, the good coffee beans she liked (he’d stocked them months ago, telling himself it was for guests). Everything arranged with the same precision he applied to everything else, but this time it was for her. For the woman he’d almost lost.
He plated it beautifully—because she deserved to be spoiled, worshipped, treated like the queen she was in his bed and in his life.
When he returned, tray in hand, she was just stepping out of the bathroom—wrapped in his black robe, too big for her, sleeves rolled up, hair damp and wild, skin flushed from the hot water.
She looked like sin and salvation.
He set the tray on the nightstand, pulled her into his arms before she could speak.
“I love you,” he said against her lips, voice rough with truth. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”
She melted into him, arms around his neck, robe slipping open just enough to press her bare breasts against his chest.
“I love you too,” she whispered, eyes shining. “Even when I hated you. Especially then.”
He kissed her—slow, deep, tasting mint and her.
Then pulled back, smirking.
“Now eat, princess. You’ll need your strength.”
Her laugh was breathless.
“For what?”
He pushed the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet.
“For everything I’m going to do to you today.”
And he spent the rest of the morning proving it.
Again.
And again.
Until she was boneless, marked, and whispering his name like a prayer.
Just the way he liked her.
Lorenzo moved through the kitchen with quiet purpose, the penthouse still wrapped in the hush of early morning. Sunlight poured through the expansive windows, gilding the marble counters and the sleek, modern appliances in warm gold. He had showered quickly—cold water to temper the fire she had left raging in him—but the scent of her still clung to his skin, a intoxicating mix of flowers, sex, and surrender that made his jaw clench even as he worked.
He prepared breakfast like a man intent on worship.
Fresh eggs whisked with cream for fluffy scrambled eggs, smoked salmon sliced thin and arranged in delicate roses on chilled plates. Ripe berries—strawberries, raspberries, blueberries—washed and glistening, piled high in a crystal bowl. Avocado sliced perfectly, drizzled with lemon and sea salt. Freshly baked croissants he’d had delivered from the bakery downstairs, still warm, butter melting into the flaky layers. Strong Italian coffee brewing, the rich aroma filling the space. Orange juice squeezed by hand, pulp and all, because he remembered she liked it that way.
Everything arranged on a large tray—silverware polished, linen napkin folded, a single white rose from the vase in the living room tucked beside her plate.
He wanted to spoil her.
Wanted to watch her eat slowly, naked in his bed, feeding her bites from his fingers, licking the juice from her lips when it dripped.
Wanted to make her feel cherished after he had spent the night claiming every inch of her body.
The tray ready, he carried it upstairs—barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, chest still bare, hair damp.
The bedroom was empty.
The bed rumpled, silk sheets twisted where they had been tangled together hours ago. Her side cool to the touch.
His heart stuttered.
“Lily?”
No answer.
He set the tray on the nightstand, moving through the room—bathroom first.
Empty.
The shower still damp, her scent lingering in the steam, but no trace of her.
Closet—her dress gone.
Living room—coat missing from the rack.
Kitchen—nothing.
Every room he checked was the same: her presence erased as completely as if she had never been there.
She was gone.
Without a word.
Without a note.
Just like he had done to her.
The realization hit him like a physical blow—sharp, deep, straight to the gut.
He stood in the middle of the living room, tray forgotten, hands fisted at his sides, chest heaving as the weight of it crushed him.
She had left.
After everything.
After he had opened himself completely—body, soul, the parts of him he had never shown anyone. After he had worshipped her, punished her, loved her until she screamed his name. After he had held her through the aftershocks, whispering promises against her skin.
She had waited until he left the room.
And vanished.
The betrayal was a knife—twisting slow.
He had finally let himself believe.
Had let himself hope.
Had let himself love without restraint.
And she had walked away.
Just like he once had.
Karma, cold and cruel.
He sank onto the couch—where she had curled against him only hours ago—head in his hands, the breakfast he had prepared with such care now mocking him from the tray upstairs.
The rose wilting already.
He didn’t move for a long time.
The city woke around him.
But inside, everything went dark.
He had lost her.
Again.
This time, for good.
And the pain was worse than anything he had ever known.
Because this time, he had no one to blame but himself.
Lorenzo stood frozen in the vast emptiness of his penthouse, the tray of carefully prepared breakfast cooling untouched on the nightstand upstairs. The single white rose he had placed beside her plate had already begun to wilt, its petals curling inward as if in sympathy with the sudden hollowness in his chest.
She was gone.
He had known it the moment he returned to the bedroom and found the bed cold on her side, the sheets smoothed as if she had never been there. The bathroom was empty, the shower dry. Her dress, her shoes, even the torn lace panties he had ripped from her body in the heat of the night—all vanished. No note. No message. Nothing.
Just like he had done to her.
The realization hit him with a force that stole his breath.
She hadn’t forgiven him.
Not truly.
Everything they had done last night—the desperate, consuming way he had taken her, the way she had surrendered to him, moaning his name, body arching and clenching around him as he claimed every inch of her—had been real. The heat. The need. The way she had come apart under his mouth, his hands, his cock, squirting for him in shuddering waves as he punished and pleasured her until she sobbed with overstimulation.
She had wanted him.
Craved him.
Even hated him and wanted him in the same breath.
But it hadn’t been forgiveness.
It had been release.
A way to purge the pain he had caused her.
And now, in the cold light of morning, she had chosen to leave.
Quietly.
Completely.
Without giving him the chance to hold her through the aftermath, to feed her breakfast in bed, to kiss the marks he had left on her skin and whisper promises against her lips.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and stared at the rumpled sheets where her body had been only hours ago. The faint scent of her still lingered—flowers and sex and the warm, addictive musk of her arousal. His cock stirred at the memory despite the ache in his chest, traitor that it was.
He had thought the night had changed everything.
That taking her completely—fucking her until she screamed, marking her inside and out, making her come so hard she saw stars—would bind her to him again.
But it hadn’t.
She had given him her body one last time.
And taken her heart back when she walked out the door.
The pain was different now—deeper than jealousy, sharper than guilt.
It was loss.
True, irreversible loss.
He had thought sex would be the way to win her back—the raw, possessive way he had always known how to take. The way he had made her body sing for him, made her forget everything but the feel of him inside her.
But it wasn’t what she wanted.
Not like this.
She wanted more than his body.
She wanted his heart.
The one he had been too afraid to give.
And now she had taken it anyway—by leaving.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, breath ragged.
The penthouse felt too large.
Too empty.
Without her.
He had lost her.
Again.
And this time, it felt permanent.
The slow burn had consumed him.
And she had walked away from the ashes.
Leaving him to burn alone.
