Subtle is for people who’ve never met Dario Marchetti.
The minute we roll up to the hotel, my jaw hits the parking lot. This place is not ‘hey, we’re just here for a quick bang and continental breakfast.’ This is ‘I own half the world and the other half owes me money’ territory.
We step into the lobby and it’s all high ceilings, a fireplace the size of my last apartment, and windows so big you could drivea car through them and nobody would even flinch. I stop cold, trying not to drool.
“Dario,” I hiss, like maybe if I whisper he’ll turn the volume down on all this splendor.
He does not. He just smirks. “Yes?”
“This is.” I wave at the lobby, at the view, at my sense of reality that’s slipping its leash.
He nods, smug as ever. “I know.”
“When you said you had a room, I thought.” I trail off, eyeing the elevator. “What floor are we even on?”
“Top.”
Of fucking course. “You know, if this is your version of understated, I can’t wait to see what you do when you’re actually trying to show off.”
He laughs, hits the elevator button, and somehow manages to make that look like foreplay.
The suite… holy shit, the suite. Leather couches, a fireplace, a bed the size of my existential dread. The bathroom is marble and glass and, oh, look, there’s a tub that could double as a pool for a family of five.
I freeze, point. “Is that a spa tub? Please tell me that’s a spa tub and not, like, a tiny baptismal font for the world’s fanciest cult.”
“It is.”
“Dario.” I turn on him, almost accusatory. “This is.”
He tilts his head. “Too much?”
I shake mine, because words have failed me. “I was gonna say ‘incredible,’ but yeah. It’s too much. You’ve singlehandedly ruined me for every hotel I’ll ever see again.”
He’s practically preening. “Good.”
He disappears into the bathroom and I follow, because what the hell else am I going to do? He’s already got the waterrunning, fiddling with temperature like he’s Goldilocks and I’m the porridge.
“What are you doing?” I ask, arms crossed, trying not to look too eager.
“Running you a bath.”
“I can run my own bath, you know.”
He glances over. “You can. But you’re not going to.”
I glare, but not really. “You’re so fucking bossy.”
He doesn’t even blink. “You said that this morning.”
“And I meant it. Repeatedly. Out loud.” I lean against the doorframe, watching him add something fancy to the water. Oils or potions or mobster tears.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right? Any of it. The gifts, the hike, this entire real housewives fantasy suite. I’d have been happy just…” I wave, suddenly embarrassed, “I dunno, existing in the same room as you.”
He faces me, something raw flickering behind all that control. “I know. But I want to. So please. Let me spoil the hell out of you.”
I stand there, feeling more naked than if I’d already gotten in the tub. But I let myself have it, have him, have this.
I cross to him, grab his shirt, and kiss him, soft, deep, grateful.
