fine line
pairing: Carmen x reader, chef Luca x reader word count: 6.2k warnings: 18+, nsfw!!!, smut!, no use of y/n, unprotected p in v = creampie, fingering, squirting, cuckolding (carmen is a cuck?!?! sort of?!?!), YEARNING (ughhhh), DEVOTION, WORSHIP, angsty as hell, slightly vague implied cheating but not really? idk idk idk.... summary: The restaurant has become the world’s most persistent, infuriating cockblock. author's note: okay. i had plans to make this filthier. with way less words. but it just didn't happen that way. like chef luca just fills me with a weird yearning and he just wants to do a good job, y'know? and i love carmy but he loves the restaurant more - so ofc he's a cuck lmaoooo. xoxo the wordy peach <3
You’re tired. Feet dragging as you enter the kitchen of your partner’s restaurant. He’s standing there, in his chef’s white, sleeves rolled up. His hair is a tousled mess; your favourite. His face reveals how tired he is, but his eyes are bright, a slight smile toying on his lips. He’s looking at his phone, typing something to someone.
“Mhmm, my Bearypie? Can we go?” You murmur, your voice half-yawn, half-prayer. You walk around the prep table, fingers skimming the edge for balance. The kitchen is dim, humming with the afterglow of service. Stainless steel and citrus oil. The scent of roasted bones in the air.
When he looks up, his eyes flash with that usual intensity. Still hungry for something, even now, even after hours. You catch that familiar glimmer and steel yourself. Whatever he’s about to say, it can wait until tomorrow. It has to.
“Honeypie,” he says, voice low and careful, biting his lip. He’s holding something back. You can tell. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, like he does when there needs to be a menu change. Whatever it is, it’s not sleep. You just want home. You just want bed. You just want to be horizontal, your hand in his, your leg tossed over his thigh, his breath steady beside yours. And tonight, for once, you might actually get that.
You raise your brow, worn-out and wary, “Mmmm?”
He holds his phone out to you. Screen bright, thumb hovering like he doesn’t quite want to let it go. There’s a conversation happening. Your eyes flick to the contact name. And freeze.
Luca.
Your breath catches before you can stop it. A name you haven’t heard in years. A face you haven’t seen since - god, what was it? Pre-pandemic? Longer?
But of course you remember him.
Tall. Broad. That blonde halo always curling slightly at the nap from heat and sweat. Arms roped with muscle, flour-dusted and knife-calloused. And that voice, soft and rich and devastating. His British accent laced with humility and warmth, with a kind of slow-burning joy that made everything he said sound like a compliment. Even “pass me that bowl” somehow felt like poetry. He and Carmy staged together, back in the day. Back before Carmy was Carmy, before Michelin stars and broken glasses and therapy.
How could you forget about Luca? How could you forget how his body filled yours? How could you forget how he stuffed you beyond capacity and had Carmen eating for days?
A blush creeps up your neck, adding rosy color to your cheeks.
His first message is innocent enough. “Hey, mate. Heard you opened something wild. Congrats!”
The rest is Carmy, practically gushing. Full paragraphs about the menu, pickles, pacing, and plating. Luca keeps up, just as nerdy, just as warm. It’s all brunoise and butter ratios and chefs being chefs.
Then comes a newer one.
“Would love to catch up with you both.”
And then, a minute later:
“You still into 🪑🐔 ?”
Three words. Two emojis. A chair. A chicken. No soft landing. Straightforward.
Your gaze shifts to your Carmy, who’s been watching you this whole time. Lips curved, just barely. God, you love the way he studies you, like he’s trying to memorize you again and again. You’re his lighthouse, and he’s the ship, always coasting home to your shore.
“Well?” You slip into him, body fitting against his like second nature. He’s warm, all fatigue and adrenaline, and he smells like mirepoix reduction and late-night sweat. Your fingers push his hair back, tangling gently.
“Are we?”
You kiss the hollow of his neck. His favourite spot. It gets him every time. A low, slow hum rumbles from his throat, and he tilts his head back, finally letting go of some of the tension he’s carried all night. You kiss the spot again, this time letting your teeth graze it. He inhales sharply, chest rising.
“Are you?” Carmen breathes. His eyes flutter open: blue flame, hot and untamable. Everything he feels lives there, right on the surface. No armor. No mask. Just him.
Your cheeks warm, giving a small nod. “Bear…you know I am.”
Your voice comes out softer than you expect. Timid, even. You’ve always been on the same page, instinctively aligned. But this one kink of his, this quiet possessiveness, took you time. And even now, even in his arms, you feel a pang of guilt admitting how much it turns you on.
Because the truth is: your mind is trying not to think about Luca.
Carmen glances around, instinctively. The kitchen is quiet. Still. He sent everyone home an hour ago. Just the two of you left, closing up. Mostly, it’s him. Working out tomorrow’s menu, fighting his perfectionism. And you, orbiting him. Walking the space like it’s muscle memory. Double, no, triple checking everything because that’s what you do. Because it’s easier than naming the heat gathering at the base of your spine.
His hand touched your waist, fingers splaying across your navel, claiming territory. Holding you there. His head tilts, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping into something low and husky.
“Hmm. What was it you said you liked about him again?” It’s not accusatory. Not quite. More like a dare. A spark thrown into dry kindling.
You huff a breath. Half-laugh, half-warning. And rest your palm flat against his chest. His heart’s already picking up. Carmy leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw, “You said he had, what - a British accent? Big hands? Right?”
You roll your eyes. He hums, pressing a kiss below your ear. “Oh, no, wait. You said he has a massive cock, and it's bigger than mine.”
You feel the smile against your skin. His fingers are pressing inward and downward. “It’s been a while since you’ve been filled… hmmm, hasn’t it?”
Carmy is right. It has been a long time. Way too long.
Between the death in the family and the chaos of opening the restaurant, you and he haven’t had a moment to reconnect in the ways you’re used to: the old rhythms, the extracurriculars.
“Mm,” is all you can manage, distracted. Your thoughts drift to Luca’s unexpected but strangely welcomed reappearance. The timing feels almost fated. Because lately… you’ve been frustrated. Not at Carmy, not really. But at the restaurant. This stupid, beautiful, all-consuming thing he built that’s eaten every spare moment of his attention.
If he’s not here, he’s thinking about it. Dreaming about prep lists. Stressing about staff. He’s been stretched thin, turning you down more often than not. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he simply doesn’t have the space to be with you.
The restaurant has become the world’s most persistent, infuriating cockblock.
Carmy’s not broken. That’s not the issue. He can perform, and when he’s present, he’s there. But being a chef is who he is, and sometimes it just gets in the way. You get it. You’ve always gotten it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. And Carmy knows that. He knows. He’s never judged you for needing more. Just… hasn’t always known how to give it. This is what led to him opening the door on cuckolding.
“Tonight?” You ask, voice soft, hopeful.
Carmy raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Honey, weren’t you just yawning and complaining about how tired you are?”
But his smile gives him away. Your eagerness is a balm. He looks at you like you’re the last clean thing in the world. With such tenderness, such aching love, it almost breaks your heart. This version of him: quiet, open, yours only comes out when it’s just the two of you. And God, you’ve missed him.
He presses his forehead against yours, “Your cute little pussy just needs to be filled, hey?”
You nod, face flushing, excitement blooming low in your belly. You love Carmy. You’ve always loved Carmy.
Since the day your family moved in across the street and saw that wild-eyed, shy little boy peeking out from behind the tree in your front yard. You’d asked if he wanted to play… and he ran. But he came back the next day. And the next.
That was over ten years ago. And still, he’s by your side. Always has been. Always will be. You really can’t imagine life without him. He’s the crackers, you’re the cheese. “The gluey kind,” Richie once joked. “No one even wants it unless the other one’s there.” Richie had said, smirking at Carmy but clearly meaning you. It was stupid. It still makes you laugh.
“Mhm, you go ahead, okay? I just need to-”
You pout before he can finish, cutting him off with a whine. “Bearrrry…”
You want him to come. You want him to watch. It’s always been better when he’s there. Hotter. Realer. Sharper.
Carmy leans in and kisses you sweetly. “I’ll be home before you even get there, I promise.”
Then another kiss. Deeper. His tongue sliding into yours, deliberate and slow. You groan into it, your whole body winding tight with want.
But he pulls back too soon.
“Go,” He murmurs against your lips, breath warm, “I’ll text Luca you are taking an Uber over,”
And just like that, your pulse stutters. Your breath catches.
Because now, it’s real.
-
You step into Luca’s place.
You smile as he helps you out of your coat, like he’s handling something fragile. His touch lingers just a second too long on your arm. That’s always been Luca. Gentle, thoughtful, precise.
Luca hasn’t changed. Not really.
Still tall, still broad, still carrying that quiet warm like it’s stitched into his bones. His accent is exactly the same. Velvety, low, every syllable drawn out just a touch longer than it needs to be. But there’s something different in him now. A stillness. A quiet confidence.
You remembered how Luca used to look at Carmy like he was lighting. Brilliant, but untouchable. Now? He seems less daunted by the idea of walking alongside him. Like he’s finally figured out he’s made of fire too.
His place is bare, but not empty. A studio apartment that’s clearly just been claimed. Clothes folded with care across the kitchen appliances. No furniture yet, except a single chair pushed into the corner and a bed. Frame and all, neatly made. Clean lines. Solid. Lived-in, but only just. And on the counter, beside a stack of folded chef whites, are two water glasses and one wine glass. A bottle of white you recognize immediately - your white, crisp and floral. Just the way you like it.
Luca remembered.
He presses a hand to the small of your back, guiding you gently into the place. “Welcome to my humble kingdom,” he jokes softly. “All… seventeen square feet of it.”
You both laugh. It feels easy. Familiar. Maybe too easy.
He gestures vaguely toward the room. “So, yeah. That’s the tour.”
You arch a brow. “Very impressive layout.”
“Right?” he grins, “Open concept. Cutting edge.”
And then, Luca’s tone shifts. He turns toward you, eyes soft but serious.
“Are the rules still the same?”
You know what he means.
With Luca, there were always rules. Not out of distance, but respect. Every touch, every pause, every breath between you was deliberate and careful. But they weren’t just your rules. They weren’t just his.
They were Carmy’s too.
Rules drawn in quiet conversations. Shared glances. Agreements unspoken, but deeply understood. Boundaries set not because of fear, but out of love, for each other, and for what this was allowed to be. Because in your worlds, everything has a rule. Timing. Rest. Temperature. Space. Boundaries are how things stay intact. Boundaries are what made this possible at all.
You meet his eyes. The room feels quieter now. Closer.
And you have to ask yourself, as your pulse steadies and the wine waits on the counter: does the recipe still hold?
You nod.
There are rules.
No kissing on the lips. Cheek kisses are okay. Forehead too. Anything else gets…complicated. No staying over. You go home. Always. Almost immediately. Everything must be prepared beforehand, emotionally and physically, no surprises. No sharp edges. No one walks away with cuts that weren't expected.
The three of you came up with these together, once. Quietly. Respectfully. In the margins of long nights and after-hours wine. A system that worked. That kept things clean.
Luca takes the answer in stride. He nods, like he already knew what you’d say. Like he hoped, but didn’t count on it. Then, he turns toward the counter and pours you a glass of the white. No questions. No assumptions. Just an offering.
You take it, your fingers brushing his.
“Thanks,” you say.
“Of course,’’ he murmurs, voice soft, gaze steady. He drinks water from one of the plain glasses. Of course he does. Luca always paces himself.
There’s a pause, but it’s not awkward. Just measured. Like everything between you.
You set down the wine, barely touched, and toe out of your shoes. His eyes flick to your feet, then back to your face. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
You sit at the edge of the bed. He follows.
Nothing rushed. No sudden movements.
This isn’t about hunger. It’s about reverence. Muscle memory. Knowing exactly how this goes and still choosing to feel it fully, each time. He kneels in front of you, hands on your thighs. His forehead rests against your knee for a beat. Breathing you in. Grounding himself.
Another rule: If it ever stops feeling good, we stop.
It still feels good.
You exhale slowly, your hand finding the back of his neck. His hair is soft. Shorter than you remember.
“I missed this,” he admits quietly.
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
Because your body is already answering for you.
Your fingers are still resting at the nape of his neck. You feel him exhale against your leg, a warm, steady breath that makes your skin prickle. Luca doesn’t move until you do.
You slip your hand beneath the collar of his shirt, just enough to tug him closer. He rises from where he kneels, moving with care. His hands ghost up your arms, over your shoulders, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt like a question.
You lift your arms in response. No words are needed. This is choreography. One you’ve done before, one your bodies remember.
He pulls your shirt off slowly, folding it once and setting it on the chair. Always tidy. Always gentle.
You undo the buttons on his shirt in return, one by one, your fingers working at a pace that betrays your heartbeat. It’s fast. Anxious. Anticipating something sacred. You pause at the last button, gaze drifting up to meet his. He’s already looking at you.
There’s a pause. Worship.
Then you slide the shirt from his shoulders, his skin warm beneath your palms. You sit back on the edge of the bed, and he is in between your knees, hands hovering just above your waist, waiting.
“Okay?” Luca’s question is quiet, and gentle.
You nod, pulling him in. His fingers find the zipper of your skirt, and you catch his wrist, not to stop him, but just to feel it. To anchor yourself. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then your temple. His lips linger there, soft and steady.
It’s not about rushing. It never has been. It’s about the yes that lives in every breath between you.
You let go of his wrist. He takes his time.
Your skirt slides off. Then his jeans. Layer by layer, the space between you dissolves. Bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but skin and breath.
You lie back, and Luca follows. And for the first time in a long time, you feel seen. Not as someone left waiting. Not as someone trying to make space. But as someone wanted.
Right now, here, completely.
Another rule: once the clothes are off, you make the first move.
Not Luca. Never Luca.
It’s about choice. Control. Safety. It always has been. The only way this works is if you’re the one who initiates. If he follows. And tonight, like always, he did.
Luca’s hands were always the first thing you noticed. Not because they were large (though they were), or strong (though they were that too). But because of how he used them. Careful, thoughtful, devoted. He touches like a craftsman. Like everything he holds might bruise if he’s not careful. And maybe that’s the point. He is careful. Always has been.
It’s not hesitation; it’s respect.
Your hand finds his, your fingers curling around his without a word. The size difference is ridiculous. Yours all but disappear inside his. He could hold both of yours in one palm and still have space left over. You guide him south, his gaze following with. There’s nothing frantic, yet.
You move his hands like you're in no hurry to get anywhere. Because once his hands land, they don’t take.
They offer.
His hand flexes as you hover above your navel. You can feel the warmth and excitement radiating off of him. You watch his throat as it bobs, a nervous swallow he can’t suppress. He’s inches away now. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, disappearing under his jaw. Impatience clouds his eyes, but he waits. So fucking patiently.
You let him down, let him go, and immediately, Luca cups your pussy, holding it, cradling it. His finger slides with such precision down your slit that it makes you both groan. Your thighs fall apart and you lie back, pressing into his clean sheets. It’s your sign that you're ready, that you give him permission to do what he wants.
He moves closer, on his side, rutting his body against yours. His cock is heavy as it rests against your thigh. Precum glazing your skin. You can feel it practically pulsating, and you want to touch it. But you can’t. Not yet.
“Always so ready,” His voice pulls you in. Luca still knows how to work your body even after all this time.
The muscles in his arm are strained, he’s holding so much back. And you hate it. You want him just to fucking take it. You want him just to fuck you already, and that is the cruelest part because that’s why rule number three was made in the first place. You couldn’t take his cock without having one orgasm beforehand, at least. There’s been times when you needed two, or even three -
Just then, your vision’s edges go fuzzy and your chest shudders. His thumb has brushed over your clit. Barely. The ghost of a touch if anything. You’re not expecting what comes next: the insertion of not one, but two of his fingers. A sharp gasp spills forth from your parted lips, his name follows: “Luca.”
He lifts his head and smiles at you. It’s the kind of smile that starts in one corner of his mouth and creeps out like it’s not entirely sure it has permission to be there. It’s like he’s surprised he can pull that kind of reaction from you.
“Mmm, s’okay?” It’s not a question.
Your muscles are tight, and Luca gives you a second to get used to it, before his fingers start going in further. Your hand flies to his wrist, not to stop him, but to anchor yourself to something because you swear you can feel every goddamn ridge and knuckle of his against your walls.
“Oh, this… is going to take some time,” He breathes with an airy laugh.
You swallow hard, barely able to get out an answer, when Luca presses his thumb against your clit, making actual contact this time.
“Luca -” You say his name again, arching against him.
“I know,” he replies, “Patience is a virtue.”
Patience is a fucking bitch, you want to say, but you can’t because Luca is working you open now. Relentless, yet gentle. Still taking his time, still savouring your tightness. There’s nothing but gasps and whimpers coming from your throat, and he thinks it's so goddamn delicious to hear you. Because sometimes you forget to use your words, and your little noises just remind him that he’s doing a good job.
From between your thighs, he sees and hears how wet you’ve become. Fuck, if only, he could bury his tongue into your pussy. If only he could give you a proper tongue lashing. He’d surely have you over the edge by now, but it’s forbidden. Off limits.
It’s Carmy’s peach only.
Luca never thinks about breaking many of the rules, except for this one. He sits up, lowers himself on the bed. His one hand pushes your thighs further apart, pinning it against the mattress. You're displayed across his mattress now, your cunt practically glistening in the light.
A feast, a fucking delectable feast, that has been denied to him. He groans, cock twitching. Just one taste, his head dips before thought can catch up to impulse, but you are quicker. You stop him, a mere inch away. His tongue could almost…
“Luca, no.” That tone. A warning.
He’s quickly brought back to his senses. Luca gives you a wickedly, wretched apologetic look that almost has you breaking too. How could you deny him?
Instead, you watch as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your hole, a mess of juices clinging to them, and brings them to his mouth. Luca sucks the sweetness away and the sound he makes, a low groan in his throat, is more vibration than noise.
The way his lashes flutter, as if you’d fed him something sacred. Something forbidden. As if Luca was Adam taking the apple from the garden. When his eyes met yours again, they were soft at the edges, the blue gone hazy like steam over a simmering pot.
“Sweet,” he whispers. A shadow clings to his features, “But not sweet enough…”
His fingers are back inside. Three this time. More stretching. Moving vigorously. His free hand settles on your pelvis, pushing down. Your abdomen grows tight, breath catching mid-inhale. Once again, you hold onto him. Not out of need, not entirely out of want. But because you like feeling him work.
The tension in his back. The slow, controlled movement of muscle. The way Luca listens and responds, always so carefully, like he’s plating something delicate. It tells you that he’s here. Not back at the restaurant. Not dreaming up sauce pairings or obsessing over reductions. But here.
Present.
With you.
And working.
Luca is putting in the hours, not just with his hands, but with his attention. And you feel it in every shift of his body. He’s showing up. Not just for the moment, but for you.
There's a tension unfurling low and warm, stretching to the edge of too much, but not quite. Your muscles once drawn tight loosen. Just enough to feel it. You've been waiting. For this moment, this touch, this closeness.
And now that it’s here, it’s… quieter than you expected. Not bad. Just smaller. Less than the ache made it seem. It eases something in you, but doesn’t erase it. Takes the edge off, but doesn’t fill the space. It’s not everything you wanted, but it’s enough. For now.
Luca doesn’t say anything right away. He sits there for a moment, steady, still, letting the air settle. His arm still drapes across you, hand resting on your pelvis, fingers twitching like they want to keep moving.
You feel it. Not in what he says, but in what he doesn’t. He’s good at hiding it. The quiet dissatisfaction. The stretch of days that feel the same. The lack of spark in a kitchen that isn’t his. He’ll never say it aloud. Not yet. But you know him. You know what it feels like when you're being fed by his work.
Luca bites his lip, that small, tight movement betrays him. He’s watching you breathe, chest rising and falling. His gaze softens, eyes tracing the slight tremor in your ribs. Almost imperceptible shift that tells him everything he needs to know.
The itch he didn’t scratch. The need you didn’t voice. It’s there, beneath the surface, quiet but aching. He can see it now, in the way you hold yourself. In the spaces between your breaths, in the way you let the silence fill the room. He knows exactly what it means.
Luca sees the quiet neglect. The kind that doesn’t get spoken about. The hunger you’ve learned to sit with. The one you’ve never complained about, never asked for more of. You’d never admit it. He knows that. But he sees it. And it makes something tighten in his chest.
The thought of you going hungry, of not being fed, of your needs being overlooked, when he’s the one who should be taking care of it? It gnaws at him. It’s nothing he can just ignore. His jaw tightens, then he exhales, a slow, controlled breath. His fingers twitch again, itching to fix it, to make it right, but all he can now is watch you. Trying to let the moment breathe, knowing the longer he stays, the more he’ll want to do something about it.
He wants to show you how good it can be. How you deserve the kind of warmth and light that makes your whole body tingle. Fireworks exploding from your chest and behind your eyes. He wants to make you feel those sparks, to see them burst, bright and wild, just for you. Because you’re worth it. Because you deserve the fireworks.
Luca didn’t know when, or if, he’d get another shot at this. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. But you are waiting, breath held, and that is enough. So he’s back at it, working his fingers harder and better than the first time. You’re gasping, begging, but not for him to stop. He knows you need this too because he knows how uncherished your pussy is.
Luca knows how Carmy gets when he’s locked in, and he just doesn’t understand how Carmy can overlook your needs. The quiet ways Carmy lets you go hungry when it comes to what matters most. To Luca, it feels selfish. Because you deserve so much more. You deserve to be worshipped. To be cherished. To have every day feel like a celebration of you.
If you were only Luca’s, he knows you’d have it. He wouldn’t let a single moment pass without showing you just how much you mean. How deeply you’re seen. How fiercely you’re wanted. It’s not just desire. It's reverence. And that is what Carmy is missing.
Luca swallows the bitterness, tucks it away, and lets his hands do the talking. There’s an aggression to his movements now. A possession almost. He’s curling his fingers with a purpose, pressing deeper, marking territory in a way that’s as much about need as it is about claiming. He’s not just touching you. He’s reminding you. Reminding himself. You belong here. With him.
A slow smirk curves at the corner of Luca’s lip, the flicker of satisfaction quiet but unmistakable. He knows, he fucking knows, how to get you there. How to make those sparks fly when it counts. That’s why he has to do this. Why he has to be the one. Because Carmy can’t. Not really. Luca remembers the look on Carmy’s face the first time Luca managed to get the job done right. Right and proper. The surprise. The grudging respect. The unspoken acknowledgement that sometimes, despite the love and years, he just couldn’t. It wasn’t a failure; it was a truth.
Because you deserve fireworks. Because Luca can give them to you. Your body is squirming beneath his touch. Your chest and throat are tight, breaths coming out short: “Please, please, please, mmm’fuck, please, Luca, o’fuckfuck.”
It pulls tight low in your belly. Urgent. Aching, like holding something in too long. Sharp with anticipation. Almost unbearable. Your body is begging for relief. Not from the pain, but from the pressure. That rising and demanding pressure. You don’t know how to form proper words anymore; you’ve been reduced to a blabbering and incoherent mess.
Then, it happens. The levy breaks. It comes in a tiny swell before the entire current spills from your wrecked and trembling cunt. You're holding his wrist so tight that there’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow, but Luca doesn’t mind. He already knows he’s going to jack off to the image and lingering scent of you tomorrow.
Luca removes his hand that had you pinned and runs it through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. You can’t help but watch him again, in awe with the slightest adoration peaking through. You’re both thinking the same thing, too bad you can’t say it out loud.
But Luca knows. He fucking knows. If only he met you first. You’d be all his, and he’d be all yours. You wouldn’t need to ask or search, because he’d take care of you. Take care of everything. He’d keep you so well fed, so utterly satisfied, that you’d never want for seconds from somebody else.
“Fuck.” Luca grunts, more to himself than to you. A self-deprecating laugh follows. He’s gazing down at you and you’re just stunned. Heavy eyelids, parted lips, drunk on the moment. Every blink comes slow, syrupy, as if you’re afraid to break the spell.
“Was that okay?” He murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns over your skin. He’s memorizing the topography of you. Luca’s blue eyes hold too much tenderness, and a devotion that makes your pulse stutter.
God, Luca is so maddening.
You remember now why you had to distance yourself from him. Because he does this. Asks like your answer is scripture, touches like your skin is sacred, looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. You want to drag him closer, to finally press your lips to those stubborn, pink pouty ones that he keeps biting. But instead, you force yourself to exhale sharply through your nose.
“Yeah, s’okay,” you lie.
Because it’s not just okay. It’s everything. Too much, too fast, too real. And that’s what scares you. Luca unravels you, stitch by stitch, and part of you wants to hold on tight, while another part is desperate to pull away before you lose yourself completely.
He smiles, knowingly, thumb brushing your hip. “Just ‘s’okay’?”
Bastard.
You grab his hand with yours and press it against your ribs, where he can feel your traitorous heartbeat. A silent confession: you’re wrecking me. Keep going.
Luca runs a hand through his hair again, pulling harder than necessary. He needs to remind himself that you aren’t his, and he has to return you. But not until he’s stuffed you full of his cum, and fuck, he’s been saving up for weeks. It’s been nothing but edging to thoughts of you and holding himself back for this exact moment. And now that it’s here, he’s determined to make it count. Because you’re worth every saved orgasm, every restless night, every risk.
He shifts closer, moving your hips as he settles between them. The head of his cock sits at your flushed entrance. Your pussy is so swollen, wet, and dripping with pleasure. He nudges his member forward, sliding just the tip inside, and the narrow friction almost wrecks him right then and there.
You shift on the sheets, eyes closed, but your face betrays you. A flicker. Barely there. A slight tightening around your mouth, your brows. A pained look that passes across your face like a shadow. You don’t make a sound, but Luca sees it, feels it. You’re taking something you can’t quite hold. And for a moment, Luca stills. He hates that he’s part of it, that he’s both the pleasure and the ache.
He leans in just enough to kiss your shoulder, barely a brush. And you shift, small and instinctive. Trusting. He pushes his cock, inch by inch, inside. A low grunt escapes from his chest. He could spill everything then, but Luca has always been disciplined. That’s what makes him good at work, at his craft, at this. He knows how to hold the line. How to keep it together. And right now, it takes every ounce of that control not to unravel. Not to give you everything he has -
“Mm’so fucking big,” Is all you can manage as you feel it deep in your belly. A fullness that’s impossible to ignore. Exquisite. Not just from the act itself, but from what it means. The weight of being wanted. Of being given to. Of being filled with something more than just touch.
It lingers, warm and heavy, blooming outward like honey spreading across hot skin. It grounds you, centers you. Makes you feel held. It hums through your bones and settles low, slow, and satisfying.
“Just a bit more,” His words ghost out, but a little bit more… and … he bottoms out. There’s a lot of breathing. It’s heavy and harsh. Both of your chests are rising and falling in sync. Your unused walls are fluttering around his cock and fuck. Luca holds still. He’s in no hurry to start, but he’s vibrating with tension.
Then, he starts to move. In and out. A slow, agonizing rhythm that has you clawing at the sheets below. It’s delicious, but you need more. You always need more. And Luca is going to give it to you. Because it’s his job, and he takes his job very fucking seriously. His pace picks up. Your body has gotten used to him, to his length, to his girth. It’s easier for him to glide in and out, easier for him to control himself. He wants you to go over the edge before he does. It’s only fair.
The heel of Luca’s palm slides down and rests against your clit, and just like that. Your mind goes hazy before going blank. You’re already cumming. No warning. His cock twitches inside of you, rolling his hips as your body sinks into pleasure. It feels good. Too good.
The way Luca touches you like he already knows what you need before you do, it lights something up inside of you. Something you’ve been pretending that doesn’t exist.
And god, you feel guilty.
Not just for being here. Not just for wanting it. But for enjoying it this much. For melting into it, for melting into Luca. For the way your body reaches for him even when your mind screams you shouldn’t. But the guilt doesn’t dull the sensation. It sharpens it. Makes every brush of his hands feel more dangerous. More electric.
Luca makes you feel seen. Taken care of. Fed.
And for a second, just a second, you let yourself forget everything else. Because in his hands, you don’t have to ask. You don’t have to explain. You just feel. And it’s the best thing you’ve felt in a long, long time.
He’s watching you in the shifting light. You’re breathing slow, lashes low, that hazy content clinging to your skin. And it notices it again, what he always notices after you’ve orgasmed. The way your body changes color. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just glows. Faint traces of pink across your chest, your neck, the tops of your thighs. A fever that blooms just beneath the surface.
And he wonders, does Carmy even care to see it? Does Carmy know how your skin flushes when you’ve been properly touched? Properly fucked? How your breath catches in your throat before you let go? The way your limbs go heavy and boneless, but your fingertips still twitch like they’re holding onto something visible?
Because Luca does, and Luca knows. God, he knows. He closes his eyes. He shouldn’t be the one who knows your body this way. But he is.
He buries his cock. To your hilt. He doesn’t hold back. He never does. When he gives, he gives everything. Every inch, every breath, every ounce of himself poured into you like it’s his only purpose. He goes deep, not just in the way his body moves with yours, but in how he stays there with you. Present. Steady. Locked in.
His teeth graze the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “All yours.” Because this is the part that wrecks him the most: not that you’re here, not that you let him in. But that someone else gets to call you theirs… and that Carmy doesn’t even realize what he has.
And even as guilt coils tight in your chest, the pleasure outweighs it. Because no one’s ever given like this. No one’s ever offered you like this. You take it. You take all of it. His rhythm, his depth, the full force of everything he’s too careful to say out loud.
And god help you, it feels so good you could cry.