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The wooden door let out a soft creak as Vera stepped in, sunlight trailing behind her. She carried a brown paper bag close to her chest, the scent of vanilla essence, cocoa, and fresh strawberries escaping in little waves. She was wearing a pastel spaghetti strap dress that ended at her knees. It swayed gently as she walked inside.

"Sugar? Checked."

"Eggs? Double-checked."

She whispered to herself.

Her heels tapped softly against the marble floor as she made her way to the kitchen.

Her purse hit the counter with a soft thud as she began laying out the ingredients—focused, humming a tune.

She didn't notice the man sitting silently on the plush living room sofa—legs crossed, head tilted, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to kill, and matching trousers, looking effortlessly sharp. He was staring at her like a predator observing its prey.

She was mid-whisk, the cake batter slowly turning creamy, when her instinct fired.

Something—someone—was behind her.

Warmth. Breath. Familiarity.

Before she could turn, she was pinned—one hand caging her between the counter, the other curling around her waist with unbothered, predatory ease. The scent of his cologne hit her like a wave—bold, sharp, spice.

"Kian..."

She gasped, back stiffening.

He didn't say a word. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she was something rare and burning.

She smelled of vanilla with a touch of lavender and danger—his favorite combination.

His breath fanned her skin and made her toes curl.

"When did you co—"

"A few minutes before you came back."

His voice was low, dangerous, smug.

Of course.

She internally screamed.

Her grip on the whisk faltered.

"C-Can you... um... step back... a little?" she whispered, her breath stolen.

"Why?" He didn’t move. She could feel his smirk on her skin.

She bit her lip. Her legs betrayed her, pressing her thighs together instinctively.

"I-I am working."

"No. You're trembling. Am I distracting you, mia piccola tentazione?"

His voice softened.

"N-No... Y-You're imagining thin... um... m-mhmm."

A soft moan escaped her lips when he nipped her neck.

"You think I don't know what your little head is thinking now?" He whispered.

She didn’t answer, too aware of how her own body betrayed her with every breath.

He turned her. Her lower back touched the cold counter. She looked up—into his eyes, which were no longer simply bluish-green. They were dark, wild, sharp.

"Who was he?" he asked, voice sharp like a knife covered in velvet.

"What guy?" she questioned back, clearly confused.

"The one who hugged you."

Realization dawned on her. A small smile crept onto her lips.

"He was Julian. My high school senior and—"

"And he hugged you."

Kian cut her off. His voice felt like a poison-coated knife, not liking how easily she said his name.

"Geez. Chill. He's like a brother."

Vera rolled her eyes.

"You don't hug someone who's like a B.R.O.T.H.E.R."

She groaned.

"We were catching up—"

"He was catching feelings."

She scowled and turned away, grabbing the whisk, trying to resume whisking.

Bad move.

But before she could even move, suddenly her feet were off the ground—

He lifted her—effortlessly—like she weighed nothing, and set her on the kitchen island.

She yelped.

"Kian..."

She barely had time to blink before—

RIIIIIP—

The delicate fabric of her dress tore away from her like paper.

Now she sat there, wearing nothing but a matching peach lace set, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

She looked at the ripped fabric in his hands, stunned. Then up at him, her fury matching the wildness in his eyes.

"Kian."

She hissed, glaring at him, furious and flushed.

He looked down at the ruined dress in his hand like it meant nothing.

Her expression shifted. Wicked.

She reached out—

RIIIIIP—

His shirt buttons flew away, scattered across the kitchen floor, his chest now bare—inked, warm, rising with silent gasps, exposed to her.

He blinked.

"Now we're even,"

She whispered, proud.

Her nails trailed down his chest, leaving slow-burning marks across his skin.

His nostrils flared. He stepped in closer, their bodies nearly colliding, the heat radiating off his skin setting hers ablaze—so intense, instinctively, her legs parted, letting him stand between them.

"Say that again and I swear—"

Then she leaned in, her breath hot against his skin, lips barely grazing his ear.

"We. Are. Even. Kian Ashford," she whispered against his ear, then pulled back a little.

Kian whispered through gritted teeth, lips brushing hers but not kissing.

"You are going to regret that, gatta selvaggia."

"Then make me regret."

Vera whispered back against his lips, as her finger traced a slow path down his chest, halting just at the edge of his waistband—dangerously close, but not quite there.

That was it.

He stepped back a little.

She blinked in confusion.

He pointed his index at the marble floor in front of him.

"On your knees."

She tilted her head, still sitting there.

"You want me to kneel? On my kitchen floor? Are you serious?"

Her brows arched in challenge.

"I didn't stutter."

She scoffed.

Then smirked.

She slid off the island with feline ease—closing the distance between them in slow, measured, graceful steps, until she stood toe-to-toe with him, her gaze tilted up to meet his.

Her eyes locked with his, burning with a silent dare—

Then, without breaking eye contact, she sank to her knees in one smooth, deliberate motion.

Kian's eyes never left her, observing her every movement like she was a dream he kept trying not to wake up from.

She was chaos in the softest shade of sin. That delicate peach lace barely covered anything—it clung to her curves perfectly.

She knelt before him on the marble floor, with such grace it felt like a coronation instead of surrender. Her skin glowing against the harsh kitchen light. Her dark brown hair fell over her shoulder, cascading down to her mid-back—messy and deliberate, enough to make him lose his sanity.

His eyes drank her in slowly—her cleavage framed by lace, the smooth line of her waist, that teasing smirk playing on her mouth.

This was destruction, gift-wrapped.

Her fingers slid up his thighs—slow, taunting, dangerous.

He hissed through his teeth, his jaw tight, hips twitching as she toyed with the waistband of his trousers.

He muttered profanities under his breath.

She undid his belt with precision. Then dragged the zipper down, her feather-light touch against him already making him hard beneath the fabric, strained, desperate to be free.

She slid down his trousers; his boxer followed after.

She freed him.

Vera's breath caught in her throat the second her eyes met the imposing length just inches away from her face. It looked painfully hard, thick, veined—twitching with restrained need, and she could swear it throbbed in sync with her pulse.

Her lips parted slightly, a flush creeping up her neck as her lashes fluttered, her eyes glazing with raw hunger as they trailed over every rigid inch of him.

Her throat felt dry. Heat coiled low in her belly, spreading between her thighs like wildfire.

She shifted slightly, her breath catching again as she became acutely aware of the lacy fabric of her panty—now damp, clinging to her sensitized skin.

Her fingers curled into his thighs for control, but her eyes still held the fire.

She held him in her hand, then removed her grip, her finger grazing along the length of him—soft, slow, gathering the warm evidence of his desire.

Her tongue flicked his tip.

He inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering shut.

Her mouth closed around him—slow, warm, wet.

"Vera..."

He breathed, voice hoarse.

She paused.

Looked up.

"Beg."

His eyes shot open—disbelief, tension, lust—all swirling inside him.

"W-What?"

"Beg, Ashford." She smiled—too sweet.

"Don't push me."

His eyes were glassy with frustration.

"Beg me, Kian. Or I stop."

His knuckles went white as his grip on the edge of the marble island tightened.

"Not happening."

"Wrong answer." She purred.

Then she licked him—one long, slow drag of her tongue—and watched as he shivered beneath her. He was unraveling, and she knew it. Every twitch, every tense breath was a sign of his struggle to hold control.

"Time’s ticking, Kian. Wanna still keep pretending?"

Her tongue flicked again.

A groan escaped him. Every line of his body trembled like a dam holding back a flood.

He clenched his fist.

His eyes turned feral.

But the need to release—

It broke him.

"Fvck—Vera, please."

She raised an eyebrow. "Please what, darling?"

He swallowed his pride like poison.

"Please... let me finish, Vera."

His voice cracked.

She smirked in victory.

She took him again.

Her head moved in slow rhythm. Her hand stroked the rest which her mouth could not cover. She sucked him hard.

His knees faltered, body trembling.

She didn’t stop.

Kian gasped—raw, guttural, broken.

He came hard, whispering her name like a holy prayer.

She didn’t pull back. She swallowed everything.

Then her mouth slipped off him with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva still connecting her lips to his tip.

Then she stood slowly, licking her lips like he was dessert.

He looked wrecked.

Ruined.

And she looked so calm.

"Next time you rip my dress, Kian..." She dragged, then finished,

"I’ll edge you for hours."

He grabbed her waist with bruising hands, slamming her back against the fridge.

"Next time..." He growled against her mouth,

"...I’ll fvck you while you bake. Let’s see if you still can mix cake batter while I ruin you from the inside out—slow, deep—until your body trembles too much and all you can think about is how full you feel with me buried inside."

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