Page 53 of Spotlight Hearts

His hands slide to my lower back—keeping me close.

I cup his face. Thumbs brushing the faint stubble along his jaw.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For making this feel…like it’s not just a job.”

His eyes soften. “It’s not. Not for me. Not anymore.”

He kisses me again, nibbling on my lower lip as he takes his time devouring my mouth. His hands roam—up my back, into my hair, down to grip my hips. He walks me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the bed. We don’t fall down to it, though. We just stand there—kissing, touching, breathing each other in—while the ocean laps gently beneath us.

The cameras will come tomorrow.

The staged photos. The “candid” moments. The hand-holding on the beach, the lounging by the pool.

But right now—before any of that starts—this is just us.

No script.

No performance.

Just Luca’s hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, his heartbeat thumping against my chest. He pulls back first this time, just enough to look at me. There’s something wicked in his eyes. Soft, but wicked.

“You’re overthinking again,” he murmurs.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His thumb drags along the waistband of my jeans, not dipping beneath, just tracing. Testing. “I can feel it.”

My breath stutters. “You can’t feel thoughts.”

“No,” he says lightly. “But I can feel this.”

His hand slides up, flattening against my chest above my thumping heart, fingers splaying wide. He presses his mouth to the corner of mine instead of my lips this time as if he’s in no hurry at all.

It’s unfair.

He kisses along my jaw. Just brushes of his mouth, tongue, and teeth. Not enough to satisfy. Enough to make me chase it. I tilt my head without thinking.

He pauses. Smiles against my skin.

“Oh,” he whispers, almost amused. “That’s new.”

Heat rushes to my face. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

The words are playful, but there’s an edge beneath them.

I grab his shirt and pull him back to me.

The kiss this time is mine first—less careful, less measured. I push into him instead of waiting for him to guide it. His surprised sound is quick, low in his throat, and then his hands are everywhere again—stronger now, gripping my hips, dragging me closer until there’s no space left between us.

He laughs softly into my mouth.

“There he is, that feral puppy I was looking for.”

“I’m not feral.”

My fingers curl into his hair. I don’t mean to. I just do. The strands are soft, warm from the sun, and when I tug slightly, his breath catches.