As the days go by, I crave Luca more and more.

But it’s not just his touch that I miss anymore—not just his lips on my body, or his cock in my pussy.

I want to know the man behind his tough-guy mask. I want to open up his skull and take a peek inside.

On the other hand, I know that I’d just be digging a deeper hole for myself.

There’s no way something like that won’t just get me more attached to him. Everything about Luca that I’ve learned, so far, I like. I can’t see myself taking a closer look at him and not liking what I find.

So, I shouldn’t.

But just like any other addict, I crumple under the slightest pressure.

“Luca,” I say over breakfast one morning. Dust motes shimmer in the slice of light streaming in through the window blinds. “Tell me about your life in San Francisco.”

“What’s there to tell?”

“I can think of some things . . . if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Luca says casually as he cuts off a piece of cherry pancake and sticks it into his mouth.

Hmm . . . I don’t remember it being this easy to get him to talk.

“Tell me about your parents,” I say. “Do they live there?”

“I have no idea where they are, or whether they’re still alive, and that’s the way I like it.”

“Pretty strong words there.”

Luca shrugs. “I don’t really care. They didn’t beat me up or anything, but they didn’t care much about me either. They shouldn’t have had me.”

“Same. My parents shouldn’t have had me either. They would’ve been happier apart.” I pause and stare at the glittering dust motes. “Well, maybe my dad would’ve been happier without my mom. I can’t even imagine my mom as a happy person.”

Luca chuckles.

“Next question. Tell me why you spent time in prison.”

He groans. “Why does everybody want to know about that?”

“It makes you seem all dangerous and mysterious,” I say. “Besides, people probably want to know if you’re a sexual deviant and if they need to keep their kids away from you.”

Luca raises his eyebrow. “Well, we both know I am a sexual deviant.”

“Yeah.” I giggle. “But seeing as nobody else does, I doubt that was the reason you got in prison. I would’ve heard about a sex offender in town a long time ago. Every time I go to the bakery, Bertha keeps me updated on all the gossip.”

“That’s true.” After a short pause, he says, “I had some coke on me.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’ What kind of sick crimes did you think I’d done?” Luca asks, an offended little vein popping up on his temple.

“I don’t know. People seem to be scared of you.”

“Oh. Actually, that used to happen before the prison thing, too.”

I laugh.

“The amount of coke I had . . . It was quite a lot,” Luca admits. “I was dealing.”

“Did you leave San Francisco to forget about prison?” I ask.

“No. I spent some time there trying to get my life back to normal. I apprenticed at this tattoo shop. And then later I just thought it’d be better to strike out on my own.”

“Because you’ll get more money that way?” I ask.

“That’s one of the reasons.”

“But not the only one?”

“But not the only one,” he confirms.

“Want to tell me about the main reason?”

“Maybe.” The corners of Luca’s lips curl up into a cocky smile.

“Maybe?” I ask.

“Yeah. If you try something for me, then I’ll reward you with the story.”

“What is it?” I can't think of anything I wouldn't do for Luca at this point. Everything he's asked for, I’ve given.

“How do you feel about getting a piercing?” he asks.

“I have piercings,” I say, pointing to my ear lobes.

“Not like those. I’m talking about a piercing . . . down there,” he says, his gaze falling to the juncture of my legs.

“Oh . . . You want me to get a piercing there?”

“Yes,” Luca says.

“I’ve never thought about it. Does it make anything feel better?”

“From what I’ve been told, it makes everything feel better. You're already really responsive, but I’d love to see how much more sensitive you can get.”

His words send a thrill down my spine. At the same time, my chest fills with warmth, knowing he's still thinking about me and fantasizing about me, even though we’ve been humping like rabbits.

“What about a tattoo?” I ask.

“You want to get another tattoo?”

“Maybe. I don't know. It's just something I’ve been thinking about.”

“What kind of tattoo?” Luca asks, suddenly all business.

“Why do you ask? Are you going to give me a $100 tattoo for free in exchange for a blow job?”

Luca laughs. “Something like that.”

I hesitate. I don't know if he's going to think I’m stupid. “I’m thinking of a word. Tattooed in black. Cursive handwriting.” I pause. “Or whatever your handwriting looks like.”

“My handwriting?” Luca asks with a frown. He eyes me suspiciously. “What's the word?”

“Doll,” I say quietly.

“No,” Luca says quickly. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay,” I say, taken aback by his strong reaction. “I know tattoos of lovers’ names are a bad idea because people break up.

“This is different, though. I just feel like . . . You're the first person to have made me feel like I have enough . . . Like I don't have to keep running around looking for my next fix . . .” When I raise my gaze, I see Luca watching me with deep concern etched into his gorgeous features.

“It's not what you think,” I say quickly, panic filling my chest. “It's not like I want more from you. It's about my personal realization.”

I hope he buys my bullshit.

“I don't care what your reason is,” Luca says brusquely. “You will not make that part of you the center of your identity. Not on my watch. Bad shit happens when you do that.”

I hate being told what to do—this is exactly why I don't let myself get attached to some guy. But the way Luca said it . . . The care and concern he shows in that comment . . . I don't know what it is, but apparently, I don't mind being told what to do by Luca.

“Is that what that girl did, the one who died? She made her sex addiction the center of her identity?” I ask as jealousy grips my heart. I wonder if she's the reason why Luca doesn't get emotionally involved with anyone.

Luca goes silent. Pensive. “You can say that.”

“Was she an old girlfriend?”

Surprise registers in Luca's piercing eyes, which glow in the morning sun. He studies me. “What if she was?”

I shrug, even though my heart rate jumps up at the thought of being found out. “I was just curious.”

“She was my sister,” Luca says quietly.

“Oh.” I raise my hand up to cover my mouth.

“She . . . I tried to save her, but you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. I learned that the hard way.” He adds, “Our parents . . . We grew up watching them shoot up in the living room. It wasn't always shooting up. They smoked, too. And snorted.”

The air in the kitchen thickens as the atmosphere grows heavier.

“Sorry, Luca,” I say. “I had no idea you even had a sister.”

“There's no reason why you’d know. I never talk about her.” Luca clasps his hands together on the table. “I hate how predictable my life is—and my sister’s, too.

“Our parents were addicts, and so we got caught up in the same problems, too. In any case, when she died, I felt like I’d failed her, and I just had to get away from the city.”

“Sorry,” I repeat. “You never talk about her . . . Not even to Peter?”

“Not even to Peter,” he confirms.

“Why are you telling me, then?” I ask, my heart racing.

“Because you asked,” he says simply.

“That's all it takes?”

“Do you want it to be harder?” Luca asks, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

I shake my head. “I just wonder why nobody knows about your past if it's so easy to get you to tell the story.”

“I don't tell people anything,” Luca says. “Just you.”

My heart does a happy backflip. So I am special.

“I also don't care whether other people get piercings, by the way. But you . . .” Luca’s voice trails off. A sinful grin spreads on his handsome face. “How about we do it on Tuesday? It’ll be a quiet afternoon for me.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I can't wait to see you go wild when I play with your new piercing.” Excitement sparks in Luca's eyes.

I give him a smile. I love how eager he is to do this. I can't get over how much he wants me and how much that turns me on.

But there's another difficult question I’ve been meaning to ask, and I think I’m ready for the answer now.

“Luca,” I say quietly as our eyes meet. “Was Peter happy, in his last days? And . . . when he died, was he at peace?”

“Yes,” Luca says, clearly uncomfortable.

I wonder if he's lying, but I guess I don't have the courage to learn the truth, after all.