"Discipline..."
The word rolled off her tongue. It tasted of iron. Of mockery.
"What a clinical term." Elena's fingers closed around the knot of his tie. Cold silk, scorching fingertips. "Are you reducing ecstasy to a legal procedure, Counselor?"
She didn't let go. She pulled.
Forced his head to tilt.
She slid her face to his neck. Inhaled.
Sandalwood. Starch. Control.
She hated that scent. And she wanted it all over her.
His skin warmed under her breath, right above the starched collar.
There he is. Blood flows even under ice.
"It is the synthesis of mastery," he replied. Voice steady. Hatefully calm. "It doesn't trivialize ecstasy. It perfects it."
Perfection. Always that word.
Elena moved her pelvis against his. Slow.
Calculated friction to send his theory to hell. She felt his thigh muscle tense against hers. Immediate reaction.
She brushed his earlobe. A kiss that was an insult to his patience.
"Pleasure is made of waste, Vittorio. Time. Breath. Control."
She placed her palm flat on his chest.
The heart. Accelerated.
Gotcha.
She pulled back just enough to nail him with her gaze.
"Are you willing to waste your precious time for me? Or are you afraid of getting lost?"
Vittorio didn't back down. His dark eyes scanned her.
"It's not waste, Elena. It's consumption." His voice was low, devoid of poetry. "And I don't get lost. I just take the longer road."
"Then take it. Without a map. Without a safety net."
He leaned down.
A quick kiss on the corner of her mouth. A stamp.
"I don't need a net. I need you."
Logic snapped.
Elena's hands shot up, climbed his chest, framed that arrogant face.
She rose on her tiptoes.
"Prove it."
His mouth found hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a blackout.
No air. No light. Just the brutal pressure of him trying to erase her and rewrite her.
Her legs gave way. Not from weakness. From gravity.
He pushed her back.
The edge of the marble island dug into her back. Cold. Hard.
Vittorio's body pinned her there. Trapped.
The brain stopped analyzing. There was only sensory input. Too much. Everywhere.
"Still navigating, Elena?" he growled against her neck, biting the skin. "Or are you the one who got lost?"
Lost? Me? Never.
Adrenaline was a whip crack.
She used the pressure. A graceful, lethal push off the ground, and she hoisted herself onto the marble.
Seated.
Higher than him.
She opened her legs, welcomed him between her thighs, crossed her ankles behind his back. A padlock.
What he thought was a trap, she had turned into a throne.
"You tried to drag me down," she murmured, looking down at him. "But you forgot one thing. I always move upward."
She leaned over him. Pitch invasion.
"Do you like the view, Counselor? Or does it make you uncomfortable when you're not the one holding the gavel?"
"Height won't save you, Elena." His hands gripped her hips. It hurt. It was perfect. "It just makes you more exposed. And the fall will be harder."
"Then make me fall."
Vittorio didn't hesitate.
The Lawyer's mask fell to pieces on the kitchen floor.
He yanked her pants down. A sharp, impatient, vulgar gesture.
No foreplay. No art.
He freed himself and sank into her.
A single thrust. Visceral.
Elena arched her back, a strangled moan dying in her throat. She felt the stretch, the filling, the violence of being invaded.
She pulled his hair back. She wanted to see his eyes. She wanted to see the monster.
"There she is..." she panted. "Finally. You stopped being a lawyer."
She pushed her pelvis against his.
"Don't stop. Take me."
Vittorio grunted.
The rhythm became a punishment.
The marble creaked. Something fell off the counter. Broken glass? She didn't care.
There was only skin against skin. Sweat. His broken breath.
Elena clawed at his vest. She wanted to rip it off. She wanted to feel skin, not expensive fabric.
Burn it all.
"Yes..." she whispered against his lips, as the tension rose, a steel cable ready to snap. "Burn. Burn with me."
"Until nothing is left," he growled.
The orgasm hit her like a freight train.
Blackout.
A muffled cry against his shoulder. Her body shaking, spasms she couldn't control, that she hated and loved at the same time.
She felt Vittorio stiffen. Heard his breath catch.
And then give way.
He collapsed against her, a guttural, deep sound, emptying himself inside her.
Silence.
Heavy. Physical.
Elena stayed there, slumped against him, her breath burning her lungs.
Her mind started working again in fits and starts.
Damage report: Heart rate off the charts. Hair a disaster. Dignity compromised.
She brushed the damp hair from Vittorio's forehead.
"Look at it..." Her voice came out raspy, unrecognizable, out of place in the attempt to deal him one last blow. "This 'new form'... is chaotic. It's dirty. And it's frighteningly alive. Much better than your icy perfection."
Vittorio looked at her. His burgundy eyes were liquid. Defenseless.
"Perfection is static, Elena." He kissed her sweaty forehead. "This, however... this is real."
She rested her cheek against his chest.
Real.
Yes.
"Then I lay down my arms. If this is reality... I don't want to break it."
She closed her eyes. For a second, just a second, she stopped fighting.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Three sharp blasts.
The intercom.
The outside world didn't ask for permission. It just barged in.
Vittorio stiffened.
Elena felt his muscles contract under her hands. Stone turning back to stone.
The armor clicked into place.
"Unforgivable timing," he muttered, pulling away from her.
Her feet touched the floor. The cold bit her soles.
She retrieved her clothes. Pulled on her pants. Straightened her back.
In three seconds flat, the woman who had panted and scratched was gone. Buried under layers of cashmere and composure.
Vittorio was at the oven's reflection. Buttoning his shirt. Steady fingers. Surgical.
"One moment," he ordered the intercom. Voice calm. Authoritative.
He turned around.
They didn't touch.
But the look they exchanged was a promise.
It's not over.
It's just paused.
Then he went to open the door.