I walk closer to the bookshelves. Tilt my head to read the spines.
The Count of Monte Cristo.The Art of War. Three different books about wine. A biography of Napoleon. Something in Italian I can’t read.
He reads.
Of course he reads. He’s a weaponized lifestyle brand with a pasta schedule and an espresso addiction. Of course he has books.
I want to touch them. Want to pull one off the shelf and see if there are notes in the margins, if he dog-ears pages or uses bookmarks, if…
Leave. You need to leave.
There’s a hallway, leading to what must be bedrooms.
I should absolutely not go down that hallway.
I go down the hallway.
The first door is an office. Desk. Computer. Filing cabinets. Very professional. Very this is where crimes get organized.
I don’t go in. Even I have limits.
Okay, I clearly don’t have limits, but I’m pretending I do.
The rest of the rooms are closed. But there are stairs.
I go up.
The second door past the landing is slightly open. Just a crack. Just enough to see a sliver of dark grey bedding.
His bedroom.
Don’t. Stevie, do not.
I push the door open. And forget how to breathe.
It’s not extravagant. Not the gold-plated mob boss fantasy I’d half-imagined. Just a large bed with dark grey sheets, perfectly made. No handcuffs on the headboard. (My pussy is a little disappointed in that.) Nightstands with lamps. A dresser. A door that probably leads to a bathroom. Another door that’s definitely a closet.
It smells like him.
That cologne. The one I caught a hint of in the restaurant. Cedar and bergamot? Sandalwood?
The bed is right there. Dark grey sheets pulled tight. Military corners. The kind of bed that says discipline, control, and possibly really excellent orgasms.
I walk to it. My hand reaches out. Touches the comforter.
Cool under my fingers. Expensive fabric. The kind you sink into.
I picture him here. Sleeping. Shirtless probably. Those broad shoulders against the pillows. That jaw relaxed. Hair messed up from sleep.
Or not sleeping. Awake. With someone. Me. Doing things that make the sheets come untucked.
I press my palm flat against the mattress.
Imagine his weight. The dip his body would make. Whether he sleeps on his back or his side.
My hand is on Dario Marchetti’s bed.
I’m touching where he sleeps.
