I'm in my room changing when there's a knock on the door.
"Just a second—" I start, but the door opens anyway.
Because apparently "just a second" translates to "please enter immediately" in Alessandro De Luca's native language of Boundary Violations.
He stops in the doorway. I freeze mid-reach for my shirt.
We're both very still. Like two animals deciding if this is a mating ritual or a murder attempt.
Probably both.
His eyes travel down my body—black lace bra, matching underwear—and back up to my face with agonizing slowness.
The air feels electric. Like right before a thunderstorm when you can taste metal. My pulse hammers. Heat crawls up my neck, but I don't move. Don't grab for clothes. Because that would be admitting this affects me. So instead, I just stand there. Chin up. Eyes defiant.
Go ahead. Look. I dare you.
His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists. For one long moment, I think he might cross the room—
"When you're dressed," he says finally, voice rough, "I need you to bring me the file from the kitchen counter. My room."
Then he turns and walks away. Leaving me standing there in my underwear, heart racing, absolutely furious at my body's traitorous response.
Get it together, Sof. He's the enemy.
I dress with shaking hands and try not to think about the way he looked at me. Like hunger and restraint having a cage match.
The file is on the kitchen counter—some business document. I grab it and head upstairs, pulse still racing.
His bedroom door is open. Alessandro sits at his desk, laptop open, looking composed. Except I saw him two minutes ago. Saw his control crack.
"Come in. Close the door."
I do, and the soft click feels impossibly loud.
"Bring me the file."
I cross the room, hand him the documents. He takes them without looking away from me, then sets them aside. Doesn't even glance at them. Just keeps his eyes locked on mine with that same dark intensity from the doorway.
"Sit." He gestures to the chair beside his desk.
I sit, and there is barely a feet between us. His body’s warmth radiates, his breath is too loud in m ears, although he’s doing just fine. Alessandro turns back to his laptop, typing. Business email, probably. Or instructions for body disposal.
And I just... sit there. Waiting. The tension is suffocating. Every keystroke feels deliberate. He's making me stew in this.
Finally—after what feels like seventeen years—he closes the laptop and turns to me.
"Still thinking about yesterday's lesson?" His voice is low, amused.
My face flushes hot. Yesterday in the locker room. His fingers inside me, his mouth on my neck, bringing me right to the edge before pulling away like a complete sadist.
"I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Liar." He tilts his head, studying me. "You've been thinking about it all day. Probably last night too. How close you were. How I stopped."
How dare he be completely correct.
"Would you like another lesson, Sofia?"
I should say no. Should maintain some dignity. Should remember I'm supposed to be the meek, grateful maid who definitely doesn't want her boss to—
"Yes." The word escapes before I can stop it. Too quick. Too eager.
Alessandro's smile turns wicked. "That was fast. Still hot and bothered from yesterday?"
"No." Complete lie. "I just—it's—" Abort. Abort. "I want to learn. For... educational purposes."
"Educational purposes." He laughs, low and dark. "Is that what we're calling it?"
My mouth is suddenly very dry. "What would the lesson be?"
He leans back in his chair, eyes locked on mine. "Have you ever tasted a man before, Sofia?"
My brain short-circuits. My eyes drop automatically to his lap—to where his pants are doing absolutely nothing to hide his interest—and my mouth waters.
Traitor body. Stop that.
"No," I whisper.
"Do you want to?"
I should say no. Should stand up, walk out, maintain some semblance of professional boundaries and also my sanity.
Instead, I nod.
Because apparently I've decided self-preservation is overrated and sexual frustration is my new personality.
"Then kneel."
The command sends heat straight to my core. I slide off the chair, lowering myself to my knees between his legs, and the position feels both humiliating and powerful in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
Alessandro's hand comes to my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. "You sure about this, little virgin?"
"Yes." My voice is steadier than it should be.
"Then undo my zipper."
My fingers tremble as I reach for his belt, work the buckle open, then slide down the zipper with agonizing slowness. He's hard—impressively so—and when I free him from his boxers, my breath catches.
"Touch it," he says softly. "Get familiar with it first."
I wrap my hand around him experimentally, and his sharp intake of breath makes something victorious bloom in my chest. I have power here too. Not just him.
"Good girl." His voice is rough. "Now—use your tongue first. Tease the head."
I lean forward, taste him with just the tip of my tongue, and his hand fists in my hair.
"Fuck. Like that. Exactly like that."
I grow bolder, licking along the length of him, learning what makes his breath hitch. What makes his grip tighten in my hair.
"Now take me in your mouth. Slowly. Use your hand for what you can't fit."
I follow his instructions, wrapping my lips around him, taking him as deep as I can manage while my hand works the rest. The sounds he makes—low groans, muttered curses in Italian—make heat pool low in my belly.
"That's it, Sofia. Just like that. You're a fast learner." His hips rock forward slightly, and I adjust, finding a rhythm. "Use your tongue. Yes—Cristo—exactly like that."
I'm lost in it. In the power of making Alessandro De Luca fall apart. In the way his control is fracturing with every movement.
His breathing is ragged now, his hand tight in my hair, his hips moving faster. He's close. I can feel it. Can taste it.
And then I pull back completely.
Release him from my mouth, sit back on my heels, and wipe my lips with deliberately slow precision.
Alessandro stares at me, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I glance at the clock on his nightstand. "Oh, would you look at that. Mrs. Bianchi asked me to help her with something. I should really get going."
I stand on shaking legs, smooth down my uniform, and start toward the door.
"Sofia—"
"Can't keep the housekeeper waiting, sir. Have a good afternoon."
I make it into the hallway before I allow myself a small, victorious smile.
Turnabout is fair play, asshole.
Behind me, I hear something that sounds like frustrated Italian cursing and possibly a fist hitting a desk.
I head downstairs, my body still humming with want, my mind screaming that I should not have done that. But the satisfaction of leaving Alessandro De Luca desperate and furious makes it almost worth it.
Almost.
Now I just need to figure out how to survive the rest of the day without combusting from sexual frustration. Or throwing myself at him the next time we're alone. Whichever comes first.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm definitely not in over my head.
I lock myself in my bathroom and try very, very hard not to finish what we started.