#wpw

Seven minutes ago, you were sipping champagne, laughing with your cousins, letting the band’s cover of Sugar by Maroon 5 carry you into that familiar warmth weddings are supposed to have. Then Sydney just had to lean in, casual enough to pretend she wasn’t stirring the pot, and mention that Luca was definitely going to be the new stage at The Bear.

Now?

Your back is against the cold porcelain countertop, heels slipping against the tile as Luca’s frame crowds yours. Somewhere between your third “you’re better than this!” and his clipped “you don’t get to tell me that!” his hands had found the hem of your dress, and silk is now pooled around your hips. 

You’re both glaring, eyes locked, daring the other to blink first.

“I thought you were joking, but you’re serious — you’re really going to be a stage? At his restaurant?” Your voice echoes through the tiled room, sharp and incredulous. 

Luca doesn’t say anything, mouth screwed shut. His hand is braced beside your hip, the other grazing black lace — the panty he insisted you wear tonight. His fingertips slide the flimsy fabric to the side, letting the cool air hit your most sensitive area.

Your fingers curl against the counter, nails biting the surface, holding onto your anger to keep you steady. To keep you anchored. It’s your cousin’s wedding, for fucksakes. It’s practically a family reunion after years spent in Copenhagen with Luca while he chased, and caught, his dream of being a chef. You’re supposed to be mingling, drinking champagne, catching up, delivering a speech in about twenty minutes…

Not pinned in a bathroom with a needy cunt.

“It’s humiliation, Luca. You’re better than Carmen, and you know it.”

The more you poke, the more you prod, the heavier his silence grows. And Luca just stares at you in a flat, bored way. He’s done with the argument. Your words mean nothing to him, yet you’re still dragging it out. You grit your teeth, pulse thrumming.

It’s impossible to look away. He’s dressed too well for this fight. Black slacks, black collared shirt, hair styled to perfection. Fabric clinging and cutting in all the right places.

Luca looks untouchable.

Every inch of him screams control — making it harder to resist, and even harder to remember why you’re supposed to be angry when he looks like this, and smells like smoke and spice and something so distinctly him. 

Then, Luca lifts two fingers to his mouth. 

The wet sound of him coating them in saliva is obscenely loud in the tiny bathroom. Your stomach twists, heat rushing even lower, because he doesn’t look away. 

Not once. 

The connection is so palpable it makes your skin prickle — Luca is doing this on purpose. All because you picked a fight with him, because you dared to tell him he’s better than your cousin. 

“This is about you proving something to him, not to yourself." you murmur, your voice faltering.

His fingers pop out of his mouth. Your chest stutters.

He drops them to your slit, peeling you apart. He starts just below your clit, gliding in an endless give and take motion — nothing about the way Luca touches you is careless. It’s dedication. Years spent mapping your body, so of course he knows the exact pressure it takes to make you gasp.

Your hand closes around his wrist, meaning to stop him, to push him away. 

But you can’t. 

Because you’re not in control. Luca is.

And he knows it. 

The glint in his eyes tells you he feels the shift, feels as you lean into it. Into him.

“And if it is? What then?” He finally speaks, voice low enough that it scrapes over your skin.

His thumb ghosts over your clit, never makes contact. He knows your reaction by heart: a sharp inhale through your nose followed by a ragged exhale, squeezed through clenched teeth.

But he’s taken back by your harsh words.

“Then you’re not the Luca I thought you were.”

The real insult? 

His pupils don’t even dilate. Just that same bored, ‘are you done?’ stare before muttering, “Mmm, wrong answer. Try again.”

Then, he circles your clit, just once. 

Your body jolts, and you try to cover it with a useless scoff, “Well, the Luca I know wouldn’t go back to be a fucking stage.” 

A muscle feathers in his jaw. Not anger. Not even annoyance. Just tired. So fucking tired of your persistent inability to understand him. One by one, Luca plucks his fingers away, leaving behind a glistening trail of ache.

Then, he moves.

Clutching your waist. Hauling you up. Setting you on the counter. Slotting his body between your knees. Cold porcelain biting your ass. Breath rushing out of your lungs. Hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

The bathroom is suddenly too small, and too hot. Music and laughter filter in through the walls, muffled but close. You vaguely register the risk of being caught, but none of it tears you away from Luca. 

He tips your chin up, inspecting your flustered defiance at being manhandled.

“Go on, then. Define me some more, baby,” Luca orders, voice dark, hand dropping to his belt, flicking it open before working on his zipper. “You know how I hate half-assed prep work.” 

Your throat bobs once. No words come. You’re still, silent, trapped by the certainty in his eyes that he has you right where he wants you. Every thought you had is gone, wiped out by the weight of his cock resting on your plush cunt, panty still shoved to the side.

“Let me guess… ‘Too proud to stage’ but just humble enough to fuck you in a bathroom?”

There’s no slow build, no easing in. Just a deep, hungry thrust. Nails digging into his arms. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, clamping around a gasp. Walls squeezing, adjusting. Every exhale comes out as a thin, nasally whine. Brows furrowing together, each line a whisper of it hurts. 

Luca lifts a hand, fingertips slowly tracing them. His touch is light, teasing, and infuriatingly intimate. You flinch, slapping him away. 

He smirks a little, daring you to try again.

“Luca, you can’t just—nngh, fuck—”

He shoves deeper, forcing your gummy walls to expand for him. Luca loves how your cheeks puff out, round and straining, fighting to stay quiet. Even after all these years, you still can’t handle his stupidly fat cock.

It’s cute. 

Your hand drops to his stomach, trying to signal that you need him to stop, that he can’t just take what he wants. He halts, pulls out a little, lets your cunt flutter around his tip instead.

His calloused hand cradles your jaw, grip just shy of painful. His thumb traces your bottom lip, admiring how lightly it quivers beneath his touch. 

“Can’t what, baby?” His gaze lingers, all honeyed and sweet.

You fix him with a glare that’s not really a glare. It’s heady, full of heat and frustration, trying to regain control over the situation you created. 

“Is it too much?” His head tilts, just enough for the bathroom light to crown him. Gold-lit hair, sharp angles, and that permanent, teasing smirk. 

Luca looks impossibly perfect. Entirely in control.

You nod, a little. A soft mewl escaping.

“Oh, that’s too bad…” He rocks forward, cock devouring the space inside you again. You wince, breath hitching. It’s too much. The friction. The burn. You feel dizzy. Lightheaded. Invaded beyond comprehension. 

But it's also everything you ever wanted.

Luca watches, mesmerized, as your face reddens. His finger taps your swollen cheek, pressing just enough to make your lips part in a gasp. 

“Adorable,” he murmurs, “But I’m going to need you to breathe, baby.” 

He holds your gaze, waiting for your lungs to cooperate again. When they finally sort of work, he whispers, “Good girl.” 

His praise liquifies your bones.

Then, you feel the slick drag, inch by inch, of him withdrawing. Leaving nothing to clench. Your face twists into panic — is Luca just going to leave you like this — cunt empty. Sticky. Drooling.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at him. Your eyes start to water, trying to reason with him, “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want your talent to go to waste working as a stage again.”

You whimper. It’s sad, and pathetic. 

“Luca, please—”

“Mmhm, gonna have to cover that pretty little mouth,” Luca places his palm firmly over your mouth, the heel of his hand pressing against your cheek while the other hand locks onto your waist, holding you in place, “Or the entire wedding is going to hear you.”

With a single thrust, he splits you open. You writhe beneath him, grunting words that get caught between your lips and his palm. 

Wait. Please. S’fucking big.

He doesn’t stop, giving you every fucking inch, burning through your limits until there's no room left, until he's completely buried at the hilt. Luca licks the tear spilling down your cheek, and lets out a low hum of pleasure, “Fuck—tight little thing still can’t take me, huh?” 

You don’t answer him. You can’t. He’s knocked any and all sense out of you. Your chest just arches into his, neck tipping back. Luca uses his weight and strength to cage your body against his, and, he fucks you. 

Each thrust is a reminder that he’s the one who’s spent hours plating dishes you can’t even pronounce. That he’s the one who lifted, endured, broken his body into muscle and precision until it became second nature. 

“Tell me, was it the 16-hour days where you watched me bleed that makes you think I’m too good to get my hands dirty as a stage again? Or are you just going to miss being the only one who gets to taste my best work?” His fingers dig into the soft yielding flesh of your hip, body angling impossibly closer.

“Be honest, baby. I know you hate sharing.” Luca growls, tearing into the resistance like it's nothing, cock hitting that spot now — your eyes roll back, and your moans vibrate against his hand. He works it over and over and over. Showing no mercy as a hot, insistent pressure builds that's too tight. Too much.

You’re right there, walls pulsating with the promise of release that never comes. Because Luca has pulled away, leaving you a shattered, ruined thing of almost.

A wet, broken sound crawls up your throat. It’s half-gasp, half-sob.

It makes him laugh, a soft, disbelieving sound. 

“Oh, did you want something?”

You nod, a bit too desperately. Maybe even a little bit humiliated too. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have picked a fight over nothing.”

His hand that seals your mouth is a brand, a reminder you can’t shake. Each slow flex of his fingers tells you that he’s the one who’s spent years perfecting pressure, and restraint. 

He shakes his head, tsking, “Some insignificant bullshit just to hear yourself talk.”

Your stifled disagreement earns you a hard grind of his hips. It’s just enough to make your toes curl, but not enough to send you over the edge.

This is where Luca keeps you, teetering on the edge, denied.

Because he likes this part.

Like the way your hips jerk, desperate, when he pulls back. Likes the way your lashes flutter, the furrow of your brows, the tension in your neck. He sees it all. Feeds on it. He could end this anytime. But why would he? Watching your thighs quake with the need he refuses to satisfy is half the fun.

And just to prove how practiced he is, how effortless his control is, Luca eases up. Penetration becomes shallow. Only giving you an inch, maybe two. Taking his fucking time, making every second count — again, again, again — until your nearly wrecked cunt starts making lewd, squelching noises and you’re clawing at him, whining in frustration.

A bead of sweat traces down the sharp angle of Luca’s jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away, doesn’t even flinch. Too busy holding the line, too busy forcing you to stay in this dizzy, aching place a heartbeat longer. 

The sweat is the only thing that gives him away. The only crack in his control. And you’d worship it, if he’d let you. 

“I know how to stage. I know how to be a chef.” Luca leans in, close enough for you to feel the heat of his words. “And I know I’m fucking good at it.”

He drags your hand to your stomach, covering it with his own, and presses down. Then, his hips snap forward. And you can feel the faint outline of his cock as it spears your cunt, owning you.

It makes you shudder.

“I’m not doing this to prove myself to Carmen — I’m doing this because he needs a chef like me in his kitchen.” Luca’s throat moves like he’s forcing down glass, tendons standing rigid under his skin. A swallow that’s too loud, too telling. But his eyes are worse. They’re bright with something feverish, pupils swallowing the light. 

“I know I’m better than him in every way that matters.”

His hand stays firm as he kisses the corner of your mouth — a mockery of tenderness. 

“Do you understand, baby?”

Only then does Luca lift his palm.

“—yes, chef—”

A knock rattles at the bathroom door.

You practically choke on your answer, eyes going wide with panic. Luca doesn’t seem to care, smoothing his hand over your mouth again, steady and calm, as if he’d been expecting it. 

“Hey, you in there?” It’s your cousin. Carmen. “Your speech is coming up...”

You twist, a muffled sound pressing into Luca's skin, but he just looks at you. Totally unbothered. Then, without missing a beat, his voice lifts, casual and lazy, “No, she’s not in here…”

Luca smiles. It’s not sharp or cruel, but boyish. Soft in a way that completely disarms you, like he’s not the same man whose throbbing cock is still buried inside your cunt. He lingers, eyes sweeping your face before finally easing out. The loss is immediate, the ache cutting into the space just below your navel.

“Luca?” It slips out as a plea, a question you don't even know how to finish. You're half-undone, wound so tight. Head buzzing, blood thrumming hot in your ears. Desperate for the rest of him.

Luca just steadies you, patient, hands firm as he helps you down from the counter. Your legs wobble when your feet hit the ground, knees nearly give, and it makes him smile again — quiet, and infuriating. He knows exactly how wrecked you are.

With one hand lingering at your hip to keep you up right, Luca crouches low, helping to slip your heels back on, fixing the straps with sure fingers, like he’s dressing a doll he isn’t finished playing with yet. As Luca rises, he sweetly adjusts your black lace panty before smoothing your dress down over your thighs with those sure, capable hands. Tugging at the fabric until it lies flat, until there’s no evidence of what he just did, of what he almost finished.

“You’re fine,” Luca says softly, though you know he's lying.

You're ruined.