When in Rome Pt. 6

The taxi slowed to a stop on a narrow cobblestone street, the kind of place where the old stone buildings pressed close, their shutters painted in faded colors, flower boxes spilling with ivy and bright blooms. The driver’s brake gave a gentle squeal, the headlights sweeping briefly over a small trattoria tucked at the corner, candlelit tables spilling onto the street. Kiara’s heart was already drumming when Lucian moved first—decisive, unhesitating.

The car door on his side swung open, his frame unfolding into the warm evening air with fluid ease. He adjusted his cuffs, stepped lightly to the curb, and with that kind of sharp, unstudied confidence that was purely him, crossed to her side. The next sound was her door pulling open—not from her hand, but his. His arm extended, a silent offer.

She slipped her fingers into his palm, and the contact alone sent a flare of heat up her arm. He guided her carefully out of the car, steadying her as the heel of her sandal touched uneven stone. Rising to her full height beside him, the streetlight caught her slip dress, ivory silk with the faintest sheen, its thin straps clinging to her bare shoulders. The neckline—daring but soft—skimmed the upper curve of her breasts, while the dress itself skimmed everything else: the small defined taper of her waist, the subtle swell of her hips, the hem swishing just above her knees.

It wasn’t what she would have chosen for something called “casual,” but Celeste had been right: this was as stripped-down as her wardrobe allowed. A touch too sexy, perhaps, but feminine enough to pass. Paired with her strappy nude heels, her legs looked impossibly long, smooth and soft under the streetlamp glow. Her makeup was pared back by her new standards—just a sheer sweep of gloss, a whisper of blush, mascara to make her lashes fan. Natural, yet sharpened, her features lit with the kind of effortless polish she couldn’t switch off anymore.

Lucian’s gaze flickered briefly, openly, across the dress before he looked away again. He himself wore a shirt undone to the chest, no tie, sleeves rolled at his forearms. The fabric—dark linen, loose but tailored—looked lived-in, sensual, the casualness undercut by the fact that on him it read as deliberate seduction. His hair, ruffled slightly by the wind, caught just enough shine from the streetlight to make her throat tighten. Subconsciously, Kiara clocked every detail: the line of his collarbone, the faint shadow of chest hair, the way his trousers clung to his hips. She told herself she wasn’t looking, but her eyes lingered a beat too long anyway.

When he shut the car door behind her, he leaned closer, dropping his voice low and even. “Out here, the paps won’t bother us. Nobody knows who we are in these outskirts. Tonight, we’re just… ourselves.”

Kiara smiled, and the expression slid onto her lips with flawless ease. “Good,” she murmured, her tone silken, carrying just enough warmth to feel like confession. “Because I don’t think I could survive another flashbulb in my face right now.”

Lucian’s brow arched, the corners of his mouth curling into something teasing. “Oh? You sure? You wear it too well. I’d say you were born for it.” His eyes dipped—just enough to let her feel the weight of his meaning—before he looked back at her, amused. “But then again, you wear this even better.”

The heat of that flirtation curled into her, and before she could rationalize, her laugh floated out—light, soft, a feminine ripple of sound. Her hand brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek, her posture tipping slightly toward him. It was instinct now, not rehearsal; her body and voice answered him with the ease of a girl caught up in the moment. Only afterward did her mind rush in with the justifications: this was performance, this was control, this was necessity.

They fell into step together, strolling along the narrow lane, where shopfronts shuttered for the evening still spilled faint golden light from their windows.

Lucian let his eyes trail once over her figure, a flicker of something amused in his expression. “This is your idea of casual?”

Her lips curved before she even thought about it, a smirk tugging her cheeks. “Silk counts as casual when it’s the least scandalous thing in my suitcase.” She smoothed the fabric down her thigh as if to prove her point, though it only shimmered more under the streetlamp.

He laughed—deep, low, not the kind of laugh you brushed off. It rattled in her ribs like it belonged there. “I see. So I should’ve shown up in a tux to match?”

“You rolling your sleeves like that?” she said, feigning seriousness. “That’s way more try-hard than silk.”

He tilted his head, mock solemn. “Touché. Maybe I was hoping to be mistaken for a magazine spread.”

“And maybe I was hoping silk would help me blend in.” Her tone was playful, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile.

He looked at her sidelong, lips quirking. “Spoiler, princess—you don’t blend in anywhere.”

The words dropped heavier than the tone suggested, and her body reacted before her mind had time to process, her shoulders straightening, her laugh a little softer now, tinged with a nervous lilt. She brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and told herself it was nothing, just him being flirty, just her role being airtight.

They began walking, their steps falling into rhythm without negotiation. The town breathed around them—lanterns glowing in soft gold halos, shutters cracked open above to spill out muffled Italian music, the occasional motorbike buzzing in the distance. As they turned a corner, Lucian gestured toward the square opening before them.

“So glad there's no paps out here,” he murmured, his hand grazing the small of her back. The touch was casual, guiding, but it sent a pulse through her spine.

Kiara glanced toward him, her chin angled just so, voice light. “Good. I’d hate to think all this effort”—she tugged on the strap of her dress—“was for the tabloids.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Oh, I don’t think silk was ever for the tabloids.”

Her chest tightened for a half second. She slipped a laugh out quickly, airy, batting her lashes like she meant it. “Then maybe it’s for the pasta. Casual dinner dress code, right?”

He chuckled. “If that’s your version of casual, I’m terrified of what you’d wear to impress.”

They wove down into the square, the stones glowing under lantern light. Couples sat hunched over tables, wine glasses catching the glow, plates steaming with fresh pasta and bread. Somewhere, a violinist played in the corner, the notes threading through the air like silk ribbons.

Lucian slowed, his arm brushing against hers again. This time, she didn’t move away. Her body tilted toward him instinctively, her head angled in perfect synchrony when his did. Her laugh bubbled out at just the right moment, her eyes catching his with that soft, trained glimmer that had once taken hours of practice in front of mirrors.

She only realized it later—each word, each look, each touch already out of her body—that none of it had been conscious. She wasn’t summoning Celeste’s coaching, wasn’t forcing herself into the mold. The role was alive in her now, moving her before she could think. Her femininity didn’t need rehearsal anymore; it breathed through her bones like it had always been there.

Lucian looked down at her, something sharp and unreadable crossing his face. Like he was weighing something. Like he was cataloguing her in ways she didn’t dare name. She held his gaze for a moment longer than she should have, her lips curving faintly, her head tilting with that subtle softness she hadn’t meant to give.

The square spilled into narrow streets, each one lined with shuttered windows and the occasional splash of neon announcing a bar or gelateria. Lucian steered through the streets with an easy sense of place, like he’d been here before, though Kiara suspected he hadn’t. He simply carried himself as if any street he walked down bent to his stride.

Their arms brushed again, again, and though neither pulled away, neither quite clasped hands either. It was an unspoken game of proximity, a teasing not-quite-touch that stretched taut between them.

The first shop was a cramped little boutique with scarves spilling from racks and linen shirts folded in uneven stacks. The door chimed as they stepped inside, the air close and warm, scented with cedar hangers and faint lavender sachets.

Lucian picked up a scarf from the nearest rack, holding the gauzy fabric between his fingers. He flicked it toward her with a grin. “Silk’s casual, but this?” He looped the scarf around her neck before she could protest, the fabric falling cool against her collarbone. “This would be scandalous.”

Her hands rose automatically, fingers brushing his as she adjusted it. The scarf was ridiculous—too loud, patterned with oversized sunflowers. She arched a brow at him, lips tilting. “You want me to look like someone’s eccentric aunt?”

“Better than someone’s angelic niece.” He leaned back a little, appraising her with narrowed eyes. “Besides, I think you could make anything look intentional. Even this disaster.”

She let out a soft laugh, tugging the scarf free. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“Caught me.” He tossed it onto the rack, a little careless, and winked.

The shopkeeper muttered something in Italian under his breath, clearly unimpressed with Lucian’s handling of merchandise, but Lucian didn’t flinch. Kiara smothered another laugh and steered him back out onto the street.

“Do you make a habit of terrorizing small shop owners?” she teased.

“Only when I’m trying to impress a girl.” His tone was light, but it landed heavier than she expected. She pretended not to notice, smoothing her hair as they walked into the next glow of lantern light.

The next shop was a bookstore—narrow aisles, shelves leaning under the weight of old Italian editions, the smell of paper and ink thick in the air. Lucian’s hand grazed the small of her back again as he guided her through the door, his touch casual, but warm.

He plucked a book at random, flipping it open. “Well? Read to me.”

She shot him a look. “It’s in Italian.”

“You’ve been here long enough. Don’t tell me you don’t know at least one poem.”

Her lips parted, and to her surprise, a fragment surfaced—something she remembered from high school. She let the words slip out, hesitant at first, then smoother: “L’amore è un fiore che sboccia senza stagione…”

Lucian’s gaze fixed on her, unreadable, his mouth curved faintly. When she stopped, self-conscious, he didn’t clap or tease. He only said, low and quiet, “I don’t care what it means. Say it again.”

Her pulse jumped, but she obliged, repeating it softer this time, letting the vowels stretch, her voice carrying in the cramped little space. He closed the book slowly, sliding it back onto the shelf, his eyes lingering on her just a fraction longer than was polite.

She broke the tension with a laugh, light, airy, moving past him toward the door. “You’re shameless.”

“Guilty,” he said easily, following.

Outside, the streets narrowed further, shops giving way to little stalls selling trinkets and jewelry. A woman behind a table of handmade bracelets reached out, catching Kiara’s wrist and slipping a string of beads over her hand before she could protest.

“Bella, sì? Lucky stones for love,” the woman said in halting English.

Kiara tried to laugh it off, reaching to remove it, but Lucian caught her hand, turning it palm-up to inspect. The bracelet clung snug against her skin, pale pink stones glinting in the lantern light.

“Keep it,” he murmured. “She’s right. It suits you.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She tugged her hand back with a smile too quick, too practiced. “If you’re trying to buy me jewelry, you’ll have to do better than five-euro beads.”

“Noted,” he said, smirking. “Next time, diamonds.”

“Next time?” She arched a brow.

“Don’t act like there won’t be.” He said it smoothly, like a fact, not a proposition.

They wandered on, stopping at a shop with glass bottles stacked in the window—perfumeria. The air inside was thick with florals and spice, the kind of smell that clung to clothes and hair. Kiara picked up one slender vial, sniffing, wrinkling her nose.

“Too strong,” she murmured.

Lucian took it from her, spraying a bare mist onto the inside of her wrist before she could protest. He caught her hand before she could pull it back, lifting it to his face. His nose brushed her skin as he inhaled, slow, deliberate.

“Not too strong,” he said finally, eyes flicking up to hers. “But not you.”

The words clung in the air longer than the perfume. She swallowed, pulling her hand back gently, the bottle clinking as she set it down.

They walked again, the air cooler now as the night deepened. The town’s square reappeared through a curve of cobblestones, lanterns glowing brighter, voices louder. Music drifted from one corner, laughter spilling from outdoor tables.

Lucian slowed his steps, his gaze sweeping over the restaurants lining the square. “Alright, princess. Pick your poison. Do we want pasta that’ll ruin us for life, or fish so fresh it stares back?”

She tilted her head, pretending to weigh. “Which one comes with better wine?”

“Trick question.” He gestured expansively to both sides. “In Italy, the answer is always ‘yes.’”

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it, bubbling, genuine. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” His hand brushed hers again, lingering this time, not quite holding, not quite letting go. “You’re still here.”

She let the silence stretch for half a beat before answering, voice airy but edged with something warmer. “Maybe I’m just here for the pasta.”

He chuckled low, shaking his head, then stopped before a trattoria with ivy curling around its doorway and candles glowing in the windows. The smell of garlic and tomatoes spilled into the street. Without asking, he pushed the door open, tilting his head toward her.

“After you.”

She swept inside, the warmth enveloping her instantly—the chatter of diners, the clink of cutlery, the rich perfume of food. A waiter glanced up, eyes widening just faintly at the sight of them, then hurried forward to lead them to a small table near the window.

Lucian pulled out her chair without ceremony, a simple, fluid motion, as though it was second nature. She lowered herself into it, silk whispering against the wood, her hands smoothing instinctively over her skirt.

He took his seat across from her, leaning back with a grin that was both satisfied and dangerous.

The dinner stretched on like a slow burn, the kind of evening where the candlelight seemed to drip down the walls and the glasses on the table never emptied fast enough. The restaurant they’d picked was small, tucked away, its walls lined with old photographs of fishermen and faded signs in French. The tables were close enough that a hum of voices wrapped around them, but private enough that everything said between them felt like it belonged only to the two of them. A carafe of wine glowed ruby under the flicker of the candle, the bottle already emptied once and replaced without either of them fully noticing.

Lucian lounged across from her, his shirt still open at the throat, chest just visible when he leaned forward over the table. His smile was slower now, his gaze heavier with the soft blur of wine, but it carried the same sharpness as always. Kiara found herself leaning across the small table too, the strap of her slip dress slipping an inch lower over her shoulder as she refilled her own glass. Her movements were languid, ****—her wrist bent delicately, her chin tilting slightly as she teased him. It wasn’t practiced anymore. She wasn’t thinking what would Celeste want me to do here? Her body just did it.

“You know,” Lucian said, twirling the stem of his glass, his voice low enough that she had to lean closer to catch it, “this was supposed to be casual. Dinner, drinks, a little walk through town. Not…” He gestured toward her with his glass, smirking. “Not you showing up looking like the fantasy every man in this room is trying not to stare at.”

Kiara laughed, breathy and just a touch too loud from the wine. She pressed her fingers to her lips, shaking her head. “This is casual. You should’ve seen the other dresses in my suitcase.” She tilted her head, letting her hair sweep across her cheek before tucking it back. “Silk counts as casual when it’s the only option.”

Lucian’s gaze dragged down her neckline, slow, deliberate. He licked his bottom lip before looking back at her eyes. “Then remind me to raid your suitcase sometime. I’d like to see what your definition of ‘not casual’ looks like.”

Her cheeks warmed—half from the wine, half from the heat in his stare—and she tossed it back at him with a grin. “You’d need more than one bottle to survive that sight.”

He chuckled, the sound low, tugging at something in her stomach. “Trust me,” he murmured, lifting his glass again, “I’d finish the whole damn vineyard if that’s what it took.”

The conversation spun effortlessly between them, each line tugging the other forward. Between sips of wine and stolen bites of food, they poked fun at each other and flirted without restraint. Lucian teased her for the way she picked at her dessert with dainty precision, and she shot back that he attacked his steak like it had personally insulted him. He leaned in once, catching her wrist lightly as she reached for the carafe again.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” he accused, eyes bright, grin dangerous.

Kiara arched her brow, lips curving. “You’re the one drinking it. I’m just keeping pace.”

He smirked, not letting go of her wrist right away. “Pace is relative. You’re already flushed.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, just once, before he released her. “God, you’re cute when you drink.”

Her laugh spilled out, unsteady, and she immediately chased it with another sip to steady herself. The warmth in her chest wasn’t only the ****. Her shoulders relaxed, her body leaning into the table unconsciously, her fingers toying with the rim of her glass while her eyes lingered on him longer than they should have.

They bantered about the paps next—Lucian smirking that if anyone did catch them, the headlines would read something salacious. “Heiress caught in scandalous dinner with mysterious man—wine stains and all,” he said, gesturing at the red marks on the tablecloth where his glass had tipped slightly.

“And the picture,” Kiara countered, giggling, “would be you, leaning all serious, with your shirt half undone like you’re auditioning for a cologne ad.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “And you’d be in it too. Head tilted, eyes all soft, lips parted just like that. Fuck—” His laugh was abrupt, but it carried a rough edge. “The public wouldn’t stand a chance.”

The air thickened between them, charged and tipsy. They kept drinking, their conversation slipping more easily into innuendo as the food dwindled. Lucian teased her about the men that must chase her back in New York, and she threw it back at him about the women that must be lining up for him in Paris.

He grinned, lazy but wolfish. “You’re assuming I even notice anyone else when I’ve got you sitting across from me like this.”

Kiara rolled her eyes, laughing, but the sound was softer now, less guarded. She swirled what was left in her glass and leaned forward, her cleavage catching the candlelight. “That’s the wine talking.”

“No,” he said simply, tipping his glass to his lips. “That’s just me.”

The wine blurred the edges of time, and before long their plates were pushed aside, glasses emptied more than once. Kiara’s cheeks were glowing, her movements looser, her giggles spilling out more freely. Her gaze clung to him without thought, her trained femininity now just part of her—the way her head tilted when he spoke, the way her tongue traced her lower lip when she laughed, the way her laugh came softer when it was just for him.

Lucian set his glass down at last, the candle flickering against his profile. His eyes lingered on her longer than before, hooded and dark. His voice came low, a little slurred at the edges from the wine, but no less deliberate.

“You know…” he leaned across the table, his hand brushing the stem of her glass but not taking it, “I can’t stop thinking about what it’d feel like…” His gaze dropped, just briefly, to her mouth, then back up. “If I kissed you right here. Right now. With everyone watching.”

The words landed like heat across her skin. Kiara’s lips parted on instinct, the tips of her fingers tightening around her glass. She didn’t think, didn’t calculate—she only felt the wine in her blood, the pull in his voice, and the answer tumbled out of her mouth before she even realized it.

“Then fucking do it.”

And the moment froze there, on the edge of something inevitable.