RAVEN

The moment Luca and I step into the open space of the gala, something shifts in the air. I spot a woman on the far side of the room—she notices him instantly—and her face shifts with this sense of awareness at his arrival.

Luca doesn't notice it. He never does, but I always do.

I can only assume he's grown so accustomed to the power and the way he commands the room without saying a word that he doesn't notice the way people's necks whip up at his mere presence. Not after all these months as the king.

However, it's not the way he's dressed. It's not the way his black suit jacket stretches over his broad shoulders. Nor is it the way his tattoos decorate nearly every visible inch of skin. It's the energy that he carries as the Don.

People fear him, especially considering they all believe he's the one who killed my father—the man everyone thought was invincible.

To the people of this world, he's a brutal, heartless king. But for me, he's soft, tender, vulnerable, selfless, loving, and the ultimate gentleman. 

I love it. They don't know the real him. Only I do.

It makes me feel like I have the most valuable thing that exists in this world.

Luca leads us to near the centre of the room and he must recognize someone because he presses a kiss to my mouth, promises he'll be right back and leaves. I decide to grab some champagne while I wait for his return.

"Rae Brooks," the deeply accented voice has me spinning to face whoever has called for me.

Well over six foot tall. Muscles so large they're barely contained under his navy blue suit. A spider tattoo that crawls up his neck—the web protruding to his left ear. Eyes so vividly blue they look like a cresting wave that a surfer might ride expertly.

"Sasha fuckin' Novikov."

I haven't seen the man in years. Haven't seen him since we used to occasionally hook up. It wasn't anything special—nothing to brag about, that's for sure. Sasha's father is don of his own mafia, so Sasha and I used to run in similar circles. When we'd see each other, we'd have some fun, and blow off some steam.

"You look good," he smiles, touching my arm in a friendly way. "How are you?"

I close the distance between us, wrapping my arm around him in a hug. His hands sit on my waist during the embrace and when we pull apart, I return his earlier smile.

He's always been nice to me, but I'm not naive. I fully understand what he and his family are capable of. Nobody who has as much money as the Novikovs have is without sin. The Russian mafia is a whole other ballgame.

"I'm good," I admit.

"I heard about your uncle. Should I say I'm sorry?" A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He knows. Everyone fucking knew what Cain was like.

They just don't know that he was my father and that I was the one to wrap his own belt around his neck until he turned blue.

I feign innocence.

"I mean, you're hooked up with the guy who killed him, aren't you?"

It was me.

"I am."

He chuckles, "Cold, Rae, cold."

I shrug, "You know me, always gotta' keep things dangerous."

"Oh, yes, I remember."

Luca approaches and I sense Sasha's demeanor shift. Luca wraps his arm around my waist, resting his hand on the top curve of my ass. Using his other hand, he pulls my face in the direction of his and descends his mouth upon mine.

The message is clear—I'm spoken for.

"Don Moreno." Sasha's curiosity is piqued at seeing me with him. I assume it's because hearing about my relationship with Luca is different from actually seeing it with his own two eyes.

I can see the wheels grinding in his head. Probably pondering if Luca killed Cain for me. If he's somehow coaxed me into this relationship with him because I'm scared. Wondering when my relationship with Luca hit the more intimate stage—before or after my uncle's murder.

People already feared Luca because he killed Cain. It only adds to public intrigue that I started shacking up with him in the subsequent months of my uncle's sudden death.

We waited a while after he died, obviously. But I'm not sure there's any acceptable time that wouldn't raise at least one eyebrow.

Being with him has given me a sense of attention similar to his. Each time I enter a room with him, I can feel eyes on me too. Curious, jealous, concerned, scared—I get it all too, only to a substantially smaller degree.

"We haven't met yet," Luca offers his hand to shake, "Luca Moreno."

"Sasha Novikov."

"Ah, the Novikovs," Luca smiles, "You look just like your father."

I quirk an eyebrow. I wasn't aware of the fact that Luca knew Sasha's family. It doesn't surprise me, though. As Don, he likely has his hand in a million cookie jars. He probably meets new people every single day.

"Not sure if that's a compliment or not," Sasha jokes.

Luca laughs, but some part of me feels like it's forced. "Simply an observation. It's nice to put a face to the stories I've been told."

"My father speaks of me?"

"Highly," Luca answers.

"He always has, Sasha," I interject.

"With you it's different." He assures me, even though I'm not entirely sure I understand. "He's always liked you. But with Don Moreno—with a man of business—I would've thought it's another story." He glances over his shoulder where his father is on the far side of the room in deep discussion with two other men I faintly recall.

When he makes eye contact with Sasha, there's a moment there. Don Novikov's eyes flicker over to Luca and I and snap back towards his son. I've been in this world long enough to see the nonverbal signal to come over. It's so subtle that I don't expect Luca to notice it, but then Luca's head shifts an inch in Don Novikov's direction—not enough to actually look at him, but enough to signal that he's aware.

It impresses me. I tend to forget how astute he can be. He's extremely good at studying people and noticing things that are dead giveaways for their true intentions.

"Speak of the devil—" Sasha turns his attention back to us. "It was nice meeting you, Don Moreno. Rae, good to see you. Enjoy the rest of your night." He quickly shakes both of our hands. "Excuse me."

As he walks off, I recall how harsh his father can be. I don't blame him for his abruptness. His dad isn't someone who likes to wait.

I feel Luca's mouth near my ear as he lowly says, "I can see that he's into you, Raven."

"We used to fuck," I admit, turning towards him to smooth my hand up his chest and straighten out his lapel. "Years ago."

This wild glint flickers in his eyes and I already know where this conversation is going.

"I didn't come here to watch you flirt with other people. Every time I fuck you, you're crying out my name. Reciting how you're mine." He grips my chin between two fingers, lifting it gently so I'm staring in his eyes. His tattooed thumb brushes over my lower lip as he says lowly, "Maybe you need a reminder, angel."

A smirk tugs at my lips. He's teasing me. He doesn't actually give a shit. He's talking dirty to try and get me riled up in public.

And it's fucking working.

"Do you not trust me?" I muse, sliding my palm further north to rub along the stubble on his jawline. "I love you, Luca. Not anyone else. Never anyone else. Only you."

As he peers down at me, his lashes are like the sweep of a dark angel's wings.

"Good. 'Cause I can't stop thinking about pushing this slit aside—" he ghosts the tips of his fingers along the split fabric, leaning his head so his mouth is at my ear as he continues, with a low and husky voice, "—and burying my face into your pussy until my beard smells like you."

"Luca," I lick my lips, my thighs pressing together as my teeth sink into my lower lip.

"Don't give me that look, I won't be able to resist you."

"Sounds like you already can't."

"Not with you," he admits with a sly smile. "Never with you. You're irresistible."

"Don Moreno," someone's voice tears us apart and we turn to see a couple approaching us. I don't recognize him, but I eye him suspiciously when I see his not-so-happy looking wife on his arm.

I must zone out for a moment as I survey them because then Luca's hand squeezes my waist as he leans in close to me. "I'll be right back, baby. We're not done here." He grips my chin again to press his lips to mine and then follows the man to somewhere else in the space.

My gaze admires the wide expanse of his back—the firm shoulders, the narrow waist, the confident stride—all encased in black material that costs more than most people's monthly salary.

I want to dig these overly manicured nails into the bare skin of his back. Mark him with red scratches over the ink that resides there as he does exactly what he wants to do to me.

The wife says something, I can't be entirely sure what it is, but her voice startles me because I'm in my haze of admiring Luca. When I hear her say hello, I notice that she's smiling at me.

"Hey," I offer, plastering a fake smile on my face.

I see her scrutinizing my fingernails, a displeased expression flashing over her face for only a moment before she attempts to hide it before I spot it.

I remember this woman. She's judgey, she's snobby, and she's frankly, a bitch. I'm not a fan of this woman.

A waiter passes by and I take a new flute of champagne off his tray. As I'm doing so, I don't miss the way Kelly's eyes trail from the bottom of my dress to the top. I'm not an idiot.

I feel like every woman knows exactly what it's like to be scrutinized. This feeling washes over you. It's hard to explain, but you can feel the eyes burning into your skin, judging every piece of you—every little bit of extra weight, each bit of fabric that isn't to that person's taste, each freckle, scar, or annoying pimple—and it's a terrible feeling that's not only uncomfortable, but unnecessary.

I'm not ashamed of any bit of myself.

Especially not when I have a man that loves all of me and never fails to remind me of that fact.

Not that I need him to feel like that. It's just an added bonus.

This woman is pissing me off and we've literally only shared a bit of conversation in our lives.

I swallow a large gulp of champagne. I need it. I need something to stop me from snapping at this woman. The last thing I want to do is make a scene.

"This is a lame event, huh?"

"Yeah," the word is forced from my mouth because the conversation from her side seems the exact same.

"Did you see that—" she pauses, stepping closer for a moment so she can whisper, "—obese woman? Looks like she's wearing Shein. Who let her leave the house looking like that?" She glances in the woman's direction and I follow her gaze as Kelly laughs mockingly.

The woman is laughing with a group of people. She looks happy, like she's enjoying herself. The dress she's wearing is looser, flowing. It's beautiful, in all honesty and so is she.

And that's my breaking point.

I place my glass down on a nearby table before I toss the contents in her face.

"I know your life is boring—filled with joyless shopping, having not a single hobby, and waiting for your husband to come home from fucking his mistress—but did you have to be a bitch too? I mean, pick a fuckin' struggle, Kelly."

At this point, her mouth has dropped open and she gasps loudly before she spins on her heels and walks away. She doesn't even go for her man—because I honestly think he'd care more about her making a scene than anything I said to her—instead, she heads straight for the bar.

Maybe I shouldn't have snapped at her, but I can't stand women like her. Ones that tear other women down in order to raise themselves up. Instead of doing that shit in an attempt to make yourself feel better, figure out what's making you so miserable and fix it.

That's one of the things I hate most about this life. Everyone looks at me on Luca's arm and the automatic assumption is that I'm a trophy girlfriend. They jump to the conclusion that I'm simply the pretty woman that Luca wants to show off.

That's the way women are treated in this world. Their opinions don't matter. They aren't of equal status. They are a means to an end and nothing more.

Why do you think my father attempted to marry me off? I was basically sold to another family. He was gaining a multitude of things—connections, financial gains, status—because he was offering me up on a silver platter.

My life—my entire self worth—had a dollar value on it for him. That's how little I meant to him. All because I was born as a woman.

Luca and Adiv are the first men I've met in my life that treat women as their equals.

Even from across the room, I can feel Luca's eyes on my skin like a physical caress. As if he's right beside me, skimming the tips of his fingers down my arm, tracing the sharpness of my collarbone, ghosting them along my lips.

I'm proven correct when I spin to meet his gaze. No one's ever looked at me like that. Like there's no chaotic world continuing around him. He glances at me like he's terrified to look away because he believes he'll miss something.

I notice he excuses himself from the conversation he was having. Suddenly, I get the impression that he can't stop himself from moving toward me any more than he could stop his heart from taking its next beat.

When he finally approaches me, he wastes no time in putting his hand on my ass, using the hold to push our bodies together. He uses his free hand to brush some curls off my shoulder and kisses me. Then he intertwines our hands, tugging gently, "Come, my love, it's time for dinner."

He keeps our hands together as I walk to his side, heading in the direction of our table. I move to seat myself in the spot labelled with my name, but Luca pulls out the chair at his spot instead.

"That's your spot—" I try to question him, but he stops me.

"It's alright, my love. Have a seat." He holds out his hand for me, aiding me in sitting by helping fix the bottom of my dress.

Once he's sure that I'm comfortable, he stops a passing waiter to grab two glasses of champagne. He sets one down in front of both of us before he takes a seat. 

We've been placed at a fairly large table—by my quick calculations, we'll soon have another ten people joining us. It gives me a bit of relief knowing there's a good chance I won't have to force conversation with any more of them.

I hope.

In fact, there's already three men and a wife or girlfriend sitting at the table in various conversations. They aren't paying us any attention as Luca leans in a bit closer, even though I'm positive from across the table and over the noise of music and chatter, they wouldn't be able to hear anything anyways.

They bring us the first course promptly, an expensive cut of beef that makes me salivate. A small, almost cordate piece with three skewers or pointed sticks positioned through to hold bacon that surrounds it.

Three other courses follow—including dessert—and by the end of it, I'm barely eating it anymore. I'm full, right on the edge of being painfully so, which means it's in my better judgement to stop.

Especially when I can tell that Luca's going to want to burn off some calories later at home.

As everyone either finishes their dessert, takes a few bites of it and leaves it, or doesn't touch it at all, people begin leaving their tables and mingling. The couples on either side of Luca and I are some of the ones who stand and head in opposite directions.

It grants Luca and I some space, as well as privacy, but we're still not alone. People remain at our table and there's a crowd of attendants enjoying the gala scurrying around us. All that being said, it feels like the two of us are in our own little bubble.

Luca's palm finds my bare thigh, his pinky finger caressing on the inside of my knee. The table is large enough that it feels as if we're alone at it as he asks in a tone quiet enough that it ensures no one else can hear, "Do you like when I touch you here?"

"Yes," I breathe, already knowing where he's going with this.

With the linen on the table, it allows coverage as Luca's fingers tickle under the hem, trailing further north. "How about here?"

It's at this point that it occurs to me why he wanted us to switch seats. If we would've sat in our assigned ones, the cut of my dress would've been on the opposite side from him.

To answer, I discreetly grip his arm, encouraging it upwards. The sight of his tattooed hand decorated with rings sliding under the fabric has my brain short-circuiting.

"Be a good girl, Moonlight, and spread your legs." He hums in approval as I do exactly as he asks. He teases at the edge of my panties, warning me, "But remember, you make a sound, and it's game over."

I'm far too fucking sober for this so I grab my glass of champagne and take a swig of it.

"Don Moreno," a man across the table calls out for Luca at the worst possible timing.

Literally just as Luca's fingertips make contact with the edge of my panties and he's tugging them aside.

"Charlie," Luca greets. I expect him to cease his actions now that people are more aware of our presence, but he does exactly the opposite. He brushes against my clit as I inhale sharply, trailing his fingers downwards. "How have you been?"

"Good," he answers as my fingernails dig into the edge of my chair as Luca circles my pussy, spreading wetness wherever he touches. "We just got back from vacationing in Anguilla."

"Anguilla," Luca nods, feigning as if we're not doing anything out of the ordinary beneath the table. Slowly, he slides two digits inside me and it takes everything within me to not moan at the feeling. With his free hand, Luca grabs his champagne, telling Charlie, "I've heard good things about Anguilla," before he takes a sip.

Charlie turns to his wife as they quietly mention something about their vacation, but I can't even attempt to hear their conversation.

Luca leans in close, the scent of his expensive cologne filling my nostrils.

"Mine," he whispers, his fingers buried deep inside me.

I can't fight the whimper that inadvertently escapes. I grip his wrist tightly when he speeds up the pace, lifting my head while I attempt to appear normal.

In doing so, I make contact with a man who pauses his glass as he's lifting it to his mouth. Literally pauses once he looks at me—arm mid-ascent, mouth parted, eyes blinking slowly.

It flusters me more. I truly can't tell whether he's able to tell where Luca's hand is buried at the moment.

I break eye contact, reaching for my own drink to try and play it off. Luca, meanwhile, is still speaking about business or something—all of them are in conversation, but I'm a fucking ocean away and I can't be bothered to listen.

How does this affect him so little? How is he able to act so normal even as he adjusts his palm so it rubs against my clit with each thrust of his fingers? How is he able to have the muscle control to fuck me with his fingers without visibly moving his entire arm in an obvious way?

I feel like my body is one of those old school thermometers. Like red mercury should be bursting out the top of my head and pouring down my temples.

I tighten my grip on his wrist. I'm going to cum. And I'm going to do so in front of a table of oblivious strangers. At this point, my nails are digging into his tattooed skin—an inaudible way of warning him.

Closing my eyes momentarily, I twist my neck away as the orgasm hits me with an intensity that makes my legs tremble beneath the table. I want to hide my face in the collar of Luca's tuxedo jacket, but that would be far too obvious, so I discreetly use my hair to hide my face as I ride the waves of pleasure.

Eventually, when I finally come down, it feels as if the room has faded away. Like I've melted into the chair in bliss. Like I didn't just cum all over Luca's fingers in a very crowded room.

It takes me a moment to feel like I'm back on earth and I use the opportunity to glance around the room, pretending that's what I've been doing this whole time. Playing into the trophy wife idea—using it as an excuse for my lack of attention in any conversation that's happening.

When I turn my head back to the discussion, I have no idea what they're talking about, but nobody seems the wiser. I take a sip of my drink to keep up the charade, adjusting my clutch where it sits on the table.

Luca feigns as if he's getting himself more comfortable in his chair as the others around us share some minor conversation. In reality, Luca leans in close to me, growling so low that only I'm able to hear, "Good girl. I need to taste you."

I pretend to fix his tie to keep up the charade, hiding a gasp as he retracts his digits from me. Casually, he traces the tips of the fingers that were just inside me along the edge of his champagne flute. He leans forward, resting an elbow on the table as he does the same thing again—this time ghosting his fingers along his lower lip.

He does it so nonchalantly that no one would know what he's doing.

Discreetly, he cleans his fingers with a napkin before anyone realizes.

But the second his tongue darts out to taste me on his lips, he struggles to hide a groan. Luckily no one else at the table is paying us any attention at the moment as he lifts his glass to take a sip.

He gets comfortable, leaning back in his seat, knees relaxing apart. He delicately grabs my wrist, pulling it over onto his lap so I can feel how hard he is through his expensive dress pants.

I'm fascinated with the feel of him through the fabric. It makes my mouth water to know what lies beneath. He suddenly clears his throat and I realize it's to hide the groan he was about to release.

I remove my hand from him and make a move to stand. Luca fixes himself in his slacks, rushing to his feet to continue being the gentleman he is—helping me with my dress and my chair.

I had intended to go to the bathroom to clean myself up, but he stops me once I've grabbed my handbag.

"Raven, we need to leave."

"Already?"

I don't exactly want to stay, but I also figured we'd at least mingle some more. Get a dance or two in.

"Yes." He takes a step closer. "You have no fuckin' idea how badly I want you. We need to get out of here 'cause I wanna' hear you screaming my name as I fuck you. Listen as you beg me to stop making you cum, yeah?"

Oh, fuck, I like the sound of that.

I think of feeling him through the fabric of his pants. "Let's go."

I anticipate that he'll want to say some goodbyes to a few people, but I'm proven wrong. Instead, he grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers as he leads me towards the exit.

"You don't need to say goodbye to anyone? None of your business acquaintances?"

"Fuck 'em," he mutters, pushing us past groups of people.

They all do exactly as they did when we entered—their heads snap up in recognition of a man they respect, are intrigued by, and ultimately, fear. Luca offers a few curt nods of acknowledgement but he doesn't stop, pulling me right out the front door that one of the staff holds open for us.

Nero is already waiting outside for us, standing beside the back door of the limo, his hand hovering over the handle. It registers to me that Luca must have contacted Nero at some point. Perhaps when his fingers were buried between my thighs he managed to shoot the man a text with his free hand.

Whatever, it doesn't matter.

Nero holds the door open for us and Luca allows me to get inside the vehicle first. He helps me with the long hem of the dress, scooping it up to gently place it inside so it doesn't get damaged, and then he's crawling in behind me.

By the time we're settled into the seat and I've placed my clutch down, Nero is in the front and hooking his seat belt over his chest.

"Under no circumstances will you lower the partition, Nero."

"Sure thing, Don Moreno."

With that, Luca presses a button and the blackened window begins to raise. With each inch it ascends, my heart hammers faster and faster—like a hummingbird is caged in the confines of my chest.

I twist my neck, making eye contact with Luca. Eye contact that's so intense it sets my skin ablaze. We can't take our eyes off each other—not as Nero shifts the limousine into drive, not as we begin accelerating forward, and not as the partition lowly hums in its ascension.

It isn't until the darkly-stained glass has risen completely that he breaks eye contact to grab my legs, using his hold to swing them up and onto the seat. I squeal in shock as he does so, causing me to lay back.

He adjusts himself and then spreads my legs almost obscenely, until he's staring at the wet spot that decorates my tiny navy blue thong. He appreciates the sight, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

As he presses his mouth to the inner side of my ankle, I ask, breathlessly, "Y—You wanna' do this here?"

"I can't wait until we get home, Angel baby."

He grabs the fabric on either side of the slit in my dress, secures his hold and pulls as hard as he can. I gasp in surprise as the entire dress shreds into two large pieces. "Luca! This dress was expensive!"

He smirks, "I'll buy you another one." As he makes the promise, the fabric falls to my sides and—without any straps to secure it to my body—crumples to the seat beneath me. It leaves me bare, except for my panties that I have a feeling are about to join the dress.

"Luca—" I reach out for him, encouraging him to come to me.

"What is it, my love?"

"Kiss me, please." I finally manage to grab hold of the lapel of his jacket and I use the hold to tug him to my bare chest. When his mouth meets mine, I melt into him, arching towards his body as his tongue pushes past my lips.

As we make out, I hook his jacket over his broad shoulders. He allows me to remove the material and then I begin making work of his shirt. I untuck it from his pants and then begin the descent of each button on his expensive black dress shirt all while our mouths remain fused together.

When I've finally gotten them all done, I splay my palms over his tattooed pecs and gently drag my fingernails into his skin, drawing them down. Once I reach his fly, he stops me, pinning my hands over my head.

And then he's grabbing the lace secured around my hips and he tears it from my body, just as I assumed he would. I'd protest—those were expensive too—but I both don't care, and know he'll buy me more.

"You're fuckin' beautiful," he assures me, admiring how I'm spread out beneath him, ready for him to do whatever he wants, as long as it satiates this overwhelming sense of hunger I have for him.

He pulls his pants down over his hips and settles himself between my legs. With his cock in his hand, he rubs the crown of it against my clit. He taps it—once, twice, three times—until I'm arching off the seat towards him.

"Do you think you deserve my cock?"

He continues to circle the head of his dick around my clit, slipping it up and down to gather wetness to spread. He's teasing the shit out of me and it's driving me wild.

"Yes," I breathe, wiggling my body beneath him as a tease, hoping he'll give in sooner than later.

I want to remind him that the car ride home is only so long, but I don't think that'd mean much to him. He'll fuck me as long as we want to. He'll simply tell Nero to circle the block, even if it means hours of wasted gas.

"I came on your fingers tonight," I remind him. "I didn't make a sound. I deserve to cum again but this time with you deep inside me."

His one hand is still pinning mine above my head, so I do my best to bend my body into his, greedily taking any contact I can get. He tightens his fingers around my wrist. I can tell that my words got to him.

He lines himself up and with one rough snap of his hips forward, he's buried inside me. The sensation is enough to make me cry out, my fingernails digging into my palms.

I pray that partition has some soundproofing.

Luca's eyes are darkened with lust, his nostrils flaring as he fixates on the space where we're joined as one. He's observing as every inch of himself disappears inside me, making it impossible to tell where he ends and I begin.

I gasp beneath him, writhing on the leather. I'm completely bare and yet, the areas where my skin touches his isn't enough. I want more. I always fucking want more with him.

He wastes no time in fucking me hard and fast. He's been hard since he fingered me under the table after dinner and that feels like forever ago. He wants this as much as I have—probably more since he's been waiting for so long without any release.

I secure my legs around his waist, encouraging him, trying to touch him wherever I'm able. To feel that connection to him.

Still continuing with his pace, he leans over me and kisses me. Steals breath from my lungs and makes my toes curl, as if I'm not already consumed by him.

"You look so fuckin' beautiful tonight, Raven. I watched men and women alike admire you all night." On a particularly hard thrust to punctuate the next sentence, he tells me, "And I'm the one who gets to take you home." Another thrust. "I'm the one who gets to hear my name screamed from your lips as you cum on my cock. I'm a lucky fuckin' man."

I grab his head on either side, running my hands over his hair as I pull his mouth back to mine. "I think someone almost caught us at the table." I can't help the slight laugh that falls from my lips.

He stops moving his hips for a moment out of shock, but then begins thrusting in teasing, slow motions that allow me to savour every inch of him. "Yeah?" He questions, in that sexy way that he does so.

"He was looking at me strange. I—" I pause mid-sentence the second he presses his thumb against my clit and begins toying with it. "I don't know—fuck—I don't know if he knew."

He smirks. The idea clearly amuses him. "You were a really good girl at the table then, yeah? Didn't make a peep."

I can't answer him. Not when he speeds up the pace of his thumb on my clit at the same time he does with his hips. The sensation leaves me both mindless and breathless, as I arch off the seat towards him.

His positions his head in the crook of my neck and between heavy pants against my skin, he presses lingering kisses.

"Yes," I finally answer him. "So fuck me like I want."

"Hard, angel?"

"Hard," I confirm.

"Fuck, Raven," he grunts before his hips begin a punishing rhythm, snapping against mine.

I cry out as the orgasm hits me instantly. As I spasm around him, he moans against the shell of my ear, pumps his hips five times and stills on the sixth, rooted deep inside me as he cums. The sensation causes me to climax for a third time this evening, which leads to my legs trembling around Luca's waist in euphoria.

When we've finally come down and he pulls out of me, the empty feeling is intense. He cleans himself up and tucks himself back into his dress slacks, quickly coming to me. He shifts me into his arms, uncaring about the mess. He cuddles me to him as the remnants of trembles radiate through my legs.

He gathers his discarded tuxedo jacket and wraps me in it to conserve my modesty and warm me up, taking care of me in the aftershock. I cuddle into him, utterly and completely happy.