The apartment was silent when she returned.
The city buzzed outside, still drunk on the afterglow of her performance. Sienna stepped in barefoot, her dress loose, skin still faintly dusted with Malik's pigments.
She expected tension.
Instead, she found candles lit.
A bath drawn.
And Luca standing at the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled, forearms bare, gold bracelet glinting against deep brown skin.
"Get in," he said.
She didn't question.
She stripped.
The water was hot. Rose-scented. He watched her sink in like he'd been waiting to breathe again. When she closed her eyes, he knelt behind her and began to pour warm water over her shoulders. Over her chest. Down her thighs.
He didn't speak.
Not yet.
He washed her with slow, deliberate hands—using a soft cloth to wipe away the pigment, the spotlight, the weight of being seen by the world.
She exhaled like her ribs were finally unclenching.
Only when her skin was clean did he whisper:
"You gave yourself to the crowd."
She opened her eyes.
"I gave them what they've never seen before."
"And what do I get?"
She turned her head, voice low. "Everything they didn't."
He led her to bed.
Didn't tie her.
Didn't restrain her.
Just told her, "Lie back. Let me show you who you are to me."
Sienna stretched across the sheets, her body warm from the bath, hair damp, glowing. Luca climbed over her slowly—nude now, heavy cock hanging thick between his thighs, eyes black with hunger.
He kissed her shoulder. Her breast. Her stomach.
But not her lips.
Not yet.
"I watched you give them your power," he murmured, licking a slow stripe up her thigh. "Now I want to feel it surrender under my hands again."
She moaned.
"Please."
"Not yet."
He spread her thighs wider, settling between them.
His tongue began like a secret—soft, patient, full of heat. He licked her like he was memorizing every fold, every tremble, every stuttered breath.
And then he devoured.
Sienna gasped, hands grabbing at the sheets, hips rising.
"Luca—"
He looked up from between her legs, lips glistening.
"You don't speak until I say your name."
Her moan turned to a sob of pleasure.
He slid two fingers inside her—slow and deep—curling upward just enough to make her vision blur.
She tried to hold back.
He didn't let her.
"You've given the world your voice," he growled against her clit. "Now give me your moans."
She came hard.
Wet.
Shaking.
Clenching around his fingers like her body was trying to pull him in.
But he wasn't finished.
He kissed up her body slowly, letting his cock drag across her slick folds.
And when he entered her—deep, strong, complete—they both groaned.
Not from the stretch.
But from the knowing.
The reclaiming.
They moved together in perfect rhythm.
He fucked her like he was grounding her back into herself—slow strokes, deep pressure, kissing her chest, gripping her jaw.
And then, softly—finally—
"Sienna."
She came again.
Just from his voice.
Just from the power of being named by the man who knew every corner of her.
He came inside her with a growl, forehead pressed to hers, chest shaking.
But there were no tears.
Only breath.
Only weight.
Only love.
Later, in the quiet, he whispered:
"Next time you let someone paint you… I want to be the brush."
She smiled against his skin.
"You already are."