Page 106 of Ruthless Grace

He crosses the room with that silent, predatory grace, stopping right in front of me. He doesn’t touch me yet. He just stands there, towering over me, his gaze dropping to my hands resting on the edge of the desk. My fingers flex involuntarily, a micro-spasm in my right palm from holding the vascular clamps for so long.

Luca’s jaw tightens. His eyes soften with an agonizingly sweet, devotional concern.

“Your hands are cramping, cara,” he murmurs.

“It was a four-hour repair,” I whisper, looking up into his harsh, gorgeous face. “My muscles always tighten after an arterial bypass.”

Before I can say another word, Luca reaches into his vest pocket. He pulls out a small, amber glass jar and sets it on the walnut desk beside me.

My chest tightens. I know that jar.

It’s my custom hand salve. A specific blend of raw shea butter, calendula, and lavender that I used to mix during my residency to keep my skin from cracking under surgical scrubs. When he exiled himself to his port office, he had memorized the exact proportions from my bathroom counter and had it recreated by an apothecary in Milan.

“Luca...” My voice breaks softly.

He doesn’t answer with words. The Don of the Valentino regime, a man whose name strikes absolute terror into the hearts of Cosa Nostra, drops smoothly to his knees on the hardwood floor between my legs.

My breath hitches in my throat. My heart completely unspools in my chest.

“Sit back, principessa,” he commands gently, his calloused hands sliding up my calves, settling over my knees to steady me against the desk.

I sit back onto the edge of the walnut desk, my emerald silk dress pooling around my thighs. I melt completely, every defensive instinct dissolving into pure, liquid swoon as I look down at my husband kneeling at my feet.

Luca unscrews the glass lid. The soothing scent of sweet lavender and rich calendula fills the quiet office, blending instantly with his signature scent of expensive leather and dark cedarwood.

He scoops a dollop of the warm, rich salve onto his palms and gently takes my right hand. His broad thumbs press into the center of my palm, working out the tight knot near my thumb blade with slow, firm, agonizingly perfect pressure.

A soft, helpless sigh escapes my lips, my head tilting back against the dark air. “Oh... Dio.”

“Good?” Luca rumbles, his thumbs executing tiny, deliberate circles over the aching tendons of my wrist, right over the spot where my surgical silk ties had bound me to him in his office.

“It’s incredible,” I breathe, my eyes fluttering open to watch him.

He is so meticulous, so devastatingly thorough. He massages every single joint, every finger, tracing up to the tips that hold scalpels and save lives. There is no violence in his hands right now. There is only raw, unadulterated worship. He looks like a warrior who has finally laid down his sword at his chosen altar.

“Healed hands,” Luca whispers, bringing my palm to his mouth and pressing a deep, lingering kiss to the center of my hand. “Brilliant hands. Hands that belong to the Queen of this empire.”

My eyes burn with happy, emotional tears. I lean forward, sliding my freshly massaged fingers into his thick, dark hair, cupping the back of his strong neck.

“This desk was ordered for signing trauma rosters and administrative permits, husband,” I whisper.

Luca looks up, his dark eyes burning with dark desire. “Tonight, principessa, it’s meant for worshipping the surgeon who owns my soul.”

He rises from his knees in one fluid movement, crowding my space until his chest presses against mine.

I don’t step back. I pull him closer, my hands sliding under his unbuttoned collar, feeling the burning heat of his skin. Luca growls softly into my mouth, his arms wrapping around my waist as he lifts me effortlessly, setting me fully onto the center of my desk.

A stack of preliminary trauma rosters scatters across the hardwood floor, but neither of us cares.

“Luca,” I gasp as his mouth comes down on mine.

The kiss is slow, deep, and scorching—a breathtaking mix of redeemed trust and wild, uninhibited hunger. He tastes like dark espresso and pure devotion. My arms wrap tightly around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him deeper, surrender meeting surrender.

His large hands slide down to the hem of my emerald silk dress. Slowly, deliberately, he hikes the smooth fabric up, gathering it around my waist until my bare thighs are exposed to the cool night air of the office. He steps between my open knees, his broad body filling every inch of space between us.

Luca breaks the kiss, dropping his head to my neck. His lips track a slow, burning path down my jaw, over my pulse point, and down to my collarbone, making my skin goosebump. His hands cup my hips, pressing me firmly against the hard ridge of his arousal through his trousers.

“Tell me you’re fucking mine, Gia,” he growls against my throat, his hands squeezing my waist with possessive restraint. “Tell me you’re not running.”