It started with a handshake.
Elena didn't expect it to matter. It was business, a meeting with Luca's most trusted lieutenants, papers spread across the table, strategy maps open, pens scratching across leather-bound folders. The air was thick with planning, the weight of the empire pressing in from every corner of the room.
And then his hand brushed hers.
It lingered—not intentionally tender, not openly possessive. Just… there. A brief pause that carried more meaning than any sentence could. She froze, pulse quickening in a way that startled her. The heat didn't rise in her cheeks—it traveled deeper, along nerves she hadn't realized were exposed, igniting a spark that refused to be ignored.
Luca's gaze remained calm, unreadable, scanning the room as if nothing had happened. But Elena felt it—every flicker of awareness, every silent calculation. Every subtle shift in his posture spoke louder than any words could. He didn't need to assert himself; the space between them, that small lingering touch, carried the weight of ownership and attention, quiet but undeniable.
She pulled her hand back subtly, pretending to rearrange papers, though her fingers trembled slightly despite her effort to appear composed. And yet… she noticed. Not just the touch, but the message it carried: you are mine in ways you do not yet fully understand.
After the meeting, she tried to shake it off. She told herself it was professional. Luca was a man who understood boundaries—he had to. But the thought lingered. Even in the cold, calculated world of business, the memory of his hand on hers refused to dissipate.
Later, in the quiet of the study, with the estate cloaked in shadows and the hum of the city far below, Luca approached. He didn't speak at first. There was no preamble, no question, just presence—solid, unyielding, a weight she could feel pressing into her awareness.
Then, lightly, his hand brushed hers again—this time on the armrest of the chair where she sat. She flinched slightly, instinctively, but did not pull away. The contact was almost imperceptible, yet it carried a gravity that made her breath catch.
"It lingers," she said softly, more to herself than to him.
His eyes lifted, piercing and sharp in the dim light. "Yes," he replied simply.
She looked down, aware suddenly of how close he stood, how solid and real he was. Every inch of him radiated control, authority, and danger, yet there was something personal, intimate in the way he watched her now.
"You always notice everything," she said, attempting defiance, though her voice betrayed a tremor.
"I notice the things that matter," he said. Then, after a pause, quieter now, "And that hand… is not for them."
"Not for who?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not for anyone else," he said. The words were casual, almost offhand. But the weight behind them pressed against her like a hand on her chest.
Elena swallowed hard. Her fingers fisted in her lap, trembling despite her effort to appear composed. "Do you mean that as a warning?" she asked, voice low, hesitant, almost questioning the feeling rising in her.
"Yes," Luca replied softly. "And a promise."
Her chest tightened. She didn't know if it was fear, anticipation, or something far more complicated stirring in her, but she felt it deep in her core. The room seemed suddenly smaller, the dim light more intimate, every sound sharper.
When he finally withdrew, the air felt colder, emptier, but the memory of the touch remained—hands that linger far longer than the moment allows, leaving an imprint on both skin and mind. Elena understood then, with absolute clarity: in this world, even the briefest contact carried the weight of power, desire, and control.
And Luca Moretti's hands… would never linger by accident.
Every brush, every hold, every small, deliberate gesture was calculated. It was an assertion of presence, of possession, and of the unspoken bond between them. Elena felt both terrified and exhilarated. That simple touch had revealed everything: his claim, his attention, his desire, and the undeniable truth that neither of them would ever be the same.
In that quiet study, with shadows dancing across the walls, Elena understood the dangerous, magnetic power of hands that linger. And she realized, finally, that some touches—like some people—leave marks not on the skin, but on the soul.