Adrian's thumb traces the wet mark on Luca's collarbone, pressing deeper, and Luca's hips roll against the polished leather of Adrian's boot — a desperate, unconscious confession. The mark aches under the pressure, a bruise of ownership that Luca can feel in his bones, and his breath comes in shallow gasps as Adrian's thumb circles slowly, deliberately, like he's memorizing the shape of what's his.
"You feel that?" Adrian's voice is low, almost conversational, but his thumb presses harder, and Luca's hips rock again, seeking friction he won't name. "The way your body knows mine now?"
Luca's hands grip the carpet, knuckles white, and he nods — a tiny, broken motion. His throat is tight, words scraping out raw. "Yes."
Adrian's free hand finds Luca's belt, fingers sliding between leather and fabric with slow precision. The buckle clicks, metal sliding through leather, and the sound fills the space between them — sharp, deliberate, final. Luca's breath catches, his body arching into the touch, the mark aching under Adrian's thumb as the nightclub's bass thrums through the floor like a heartbeat, muffled, distant, irrelevant.
"I've been thinking about this," Adrian says, his thumb still circling, his other hand working the belt free. "About what it would look like. You, on your knees. Me, taking what's mine."
Luca's hands tremble against the carpet, and he doesn't pull away. Doesn't want to. The belt slides free, leather whispering against fabric, and Adrian's hand rests on Luca's stomach, palm flat, fingers spread. The warmth seeps through the thin cotton of his shirt, and Luca's muscles twitch under the touch, a shiver running through him.
"You've been hiding this," Adrian continues, his voice soft, almost tender. "This part of you that wants to be seen. Wants to be owned." His thumb drags across the mark again, and Luca's hips buck, a whimper escaping his throat. "I'm going to show you what it means to be owned — not hidden, not ashamed, just mine."
Adrian leans in, his mouth brushing Luca's ear, and his voice drops to a whisper that cuts through the bass, through the heat, through everything. "You understand?"
Luca's eyes close, and he nods again, his body going slack, tension draining as he surrenders to the weight of Adrian's words. "Yes." The word is barely audible, a confession scraped from somewhere deep.
Adrian's hand slides lower, fingers tracing the waistband of Luca's jeans, and he presses his thumb into the mark one last time — a promise, a claim, a brand. "Good boy."
The bass thrums through the floor, a distant heartbeat in the velvet dark. Adrian's thumb rests on the mark, warm and still, and Luca's eyes are closed, his body slack against the carpet, the word "Good boy" still vibrating in his chest like a struck chord. He doesn't want to move. Doesn't want this to end.
Then the phone buzzes.
It's a sharp, insistent sound, cutting through the bass, through the heat, through the space between them. Adrian's hand pauses, the weight of his palm faltering on Luca's stomach. Luca's eyes open, his focus shifting from the pressure of Adrian's thumb to the sudden stillness in Adrian's body.
Adrian pulls the phone from his jacket pocket with his free hand, glancing at the screen. The light from the display catches his face, washing his features in cold blue. His jaw tightens, just for a moment—a flicker of something Luca can't read. The name on the screen is one Luca doesn't know. He catches just a glimpse: *Valentina*. Or maybe *Valentine*. The letters blur before he can focus.
"Give me a moment." Adrian's voice is flat, stripped of the heat that filled it seconds ago. He steps back, the warmth of his body receding, and Luca feels the absence like a physical ache. The phone buzzes again, more urgent, and Adrian turns slightly, his shoulder blocking Luca's view as he brings it to his ear.
Luca stays on his knees, his hands gripping the carpet, his heart hammering. The mark on his collarbone throbs, cooling now without Adrian's thumb against it. He watches Adrian's back, the line of his shoulders, the way his free hand curls into a fist at his side. The voice on the other end is muffled, indistinct, but Adrian's answers are clipped: "Not now." "I said not now." "Tomorrow."
Adrian ends the call, the phone sliding back into his jacket. He turns, and for a moment his eyes are distant, cold, the same winter coins from the interview. Then they land on Luca, and something softens—a crack in the ice, barely visible, but there. He steps closer, his boot brushing Luca's knee, and his hand finds the back of Luca's neck, fingers threading into his messy curls.
"Where were we?" Adrian's voice is low again, the heat returning, but there's a new edge to it—a tension that wasn't there before. His thumb traces the mark again, firmer now, as if reclaiming lost ground. Luca's breath catches, his body responding before his mind can catch up, and he presses his forehead against Adrian's knee, surrendering to the touch, to the weight of the moment.
The phone buzzes again. Adrian ignores it.