Page 52 of Spotlight Hearts

To me, it feels like I’m trespassing.

“So,” he says after a second, voice softer now, “we fix that.”

Before I can ask what he means, he steps closer.

Close enough that the warm salt air carries his scent with it, and the dock creaks under the shift in his weight. Close enough that my pulse immediately forgets how to behave.

“Luca,” I murmur, glancing toward the empty stretch of dock, the path behind us, the open sky. “There aren’t any cameras yet.”

His gaze flicks once toward the horizon as though he’s checking out of habit.

Then it drops back to me.

“Even better.”

And then he kisses me. Not a staged version. Or the press-room version. There is no timing or right angles with this one.

This one is quiet. Warm. Unhurried.

His hand slides up my arm to my jaw, thumb brushing just beneath my ear as his mouth presses to mine as if he’s testing something—like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away.

I don’t. I lean in. Just a fraction.

A low sound hums in his throat, almost approving, and the hand at my jaw tightens slightly, tilting my face the way he wants it. His lips move against mine once, and the world goes very still around us—water, wind, gulls, everything fading until there’s just the heat of his mouth and the steady slide of his thumb along my skin.

No cameras.

No audience.

Just him.

Just me.

When he pulls back, it’s only far enough that our noses brush.

“You’re allowed to enjoy this,” he says quietly. “All of it.”

My stomach flips. I don’t know if he means the villa. Or him.

I let out a shaky breath against his mouth.

He smiles—small, real—and tugs me forward.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s check out the inside.”

We step onto the deck.

The glass doors are already open. Cool air spills out—AC, yes, but also that expensive scent of clean linen, citrus, and sea salt. The living area is open to the bedroom; one big space with white everything—white couch, white linens, white teak floors that gleam under recessed lighting. A bottle of champagne chills in a silver bucket on the coffee table, two flutes beside it. Beyond the bed, another set of glass doors opens to the private infinity pool and the ocean beyond.

I stop again just inside the threshold.

Luca lets go of my hand just long enough to kick off his sandals and drop our bags next to the door. Then he’s back—arms sliding around my waist from behind, chin resting on my shoulder.

“Bed’s huge,” he murmurs against my ear. “Pool’s private. No one’s gonna bother us…until the paps show up tomorrow morning. So we have some time to enjoy it all. Unless you want the other room…”

I lean back into him. His chest is warm through his shirt. His hands slide under the hem of mine—palms flat against my stomach, thumbs brushing slow arcs over my skin. Touch is his love language, I realize. He’s always been tactile—shoulder bumps, knees knocking under tables, fingers brushing when he passes me water. But now there’s no pretense. No audience. He touches me because he wants to. Because he can.

I turn in his arms.