I was in his bed by midnight, just as he ordered.
The connecting door had been left open. I walked through it on bare feet, wearing only the thin silk robe that had been left on my bed after the shower. Luciano was already there, sitting in a low armchair by the window with a glass of whiskey, shirt unbuttoned, watching the city lights far below.
He didn’t look at me right away. He finished the drink, set the glass down, and then turned his head.
“Come here.”
I went.
He pulled me between his spread knees, hands settling on my hips over the silk. His thumbs stroked slow circles against the bone. Up close I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the silver threading through the dark hair at his temples, the absolute certainty in his eyes.
“You’re trembling again,” he said.
“I’m cold.
