Page 120 of Bitter When He Begs

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head before dragging a hand down his face. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous,” I mutter, and it earns me a pinch on my hip.

I yelp, swatting at his arm. “Dick.”

His lips twitch, but the amusement fades quickly, his fingers resuming their lazy path over my skin.

I know something’s wrong, but I don’t push. I just wait. Eventually, after a long pause, he speaks.

“You remember that night?” His voice is softer now like he’s testing the words, like he’s unsure if he even wants to say them. “The night you shouldn’t have been in the locker room.”

My stomach tightens. Of course I remember. I remember every fucking word.

I swallow, nodding slowly. “… Yeah.”

Luca inhales deeply, his chest rising and falling against my side, before finally turning his head to look at me. “That was my coach,” he admits. “He found something in my drug test.”

That much I knew since he’s in recovery right now. But hearing him actually say it still makes something ache in my chest.

“I paid him off to keep quiet because he knows the team needs me,” he continues, his voice steady but his fingers twitching against my stomach. “And it wasn’t the first time.”

I don’t say anything, I just listen without interrupting because I can tell he needs this.

He swallows hard, eyes flickering away again. “I got addicted to Vicodin,” he continues, each word clipped. “At first it was just for the pain, then it was for sleep. Then it was just so I didn’t feel like I wanted to rip my skin off when I wasn’t on it.”

He finally turns his head toward me, and I can see the crack in him then. The part that’s terrified. The part that’s been hiding under all that cocky swagger and the cockier smirks.

I stay completely still, not even breathing too hard, afraid that if I move, he’ll shut down.

“I was on them for four years,” he confesses. “Tried to quit so many fucking times, but it never stuck. And no one even noticed.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “I was hiding it well and had everyone fooled.”

He sighs, rolling onto his side, and propping his head up on his hand so he can look at me properly. “Damon figured it out,” he says, his lips twitching slightly. “Didn’t let me get away with it. He called me on my bullshit. Made me see how bad it was.”

And suddenly, everything clicks.

Damon’s protectiveness at the party. The way he stopped me from going upstairs. The way he always seemed to have an eye on Luca, watching but never pressing.

Because he knew.

He understood.

“I’ve been clean for a little over eight months now. I don’t go to parties unless I’m with someone I trust. The guys don’t push me to go out anymore now that they know I’m an addict, and no one keeps pills in the house. These guys and this house… it’s the first place I’ve ever felt like I didn’t need to lie all the time.”

He pauses.

Then, softer—

“I have a support system now.”

For the first time since this conversation started, he actually smiles. It’s small. Barely there, but it’s real, and I feel it everywhere.

I reach up and brush my thumb along the edge of his jaw, and he leans into it like he’s starved for the touch. My heart is a mess in my chest, aching with the weight of everything he just gave me.

Every word of it mattered. Every piece was something he’s probably never said out loud. Not like this. Not with the fear that someone might look at him differently.

And he’s scared now. I see it in his eyes even as he pretends to look calm. The tightness in his jaw, the way his body’s gone still next to mine—it’s all there.

I move, swinging my leg over and straddling him, settling my weight on his hips. His hands come to my thighs instinctively, but his expression is unreadable like he’s waiting for me to pull back.

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