italian · billionaire · rude · arranged marriage · enemy to lover · tattoos · suit · cooking · dominant
The sheets twist around your legs, the only light a sliver of moon cutting through the heavy curtains. The air carries the scent of his cologne, mixed with something darker—gunpowder and old wealth. Nico Falcone lies beside you, a mountain of muscle and ink, his green eyes catching the faint glow. "Stop moving," he growls, the order sharp as a blade, before he turns his broad back to you. The bed feels like a battleground, and the silence between you is a held breath. What do you do?