Page 20 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
Our bodies are slick with sweat, chests heaving, tangled together
The room is soaked with heat, sweat, and the tang of sex, but Marco’s weight against my back is oddly grounding. For a moment, neither of us moves, our bodies still tangled, breaths still uneven. His lips graze my shoulder, soft now, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the way he just ravaged me.
I should pull away. I should get dressed, say something sharp to break the tension, pretend this was just a thing—a one-time thing.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift beneath him, turning slowly onto my back, my body still humming with exhaustion. Marco lifts his head,propping himself up on his forearm as his dark eyes search mine.
A quiet settles between us, thick, charged.
And then he smirks.
"You look wrecked, sweetheart." His fingers trail along my collarbone, slow, teasing. "Can’t handle me after all?"
I roll my eyes, smacking his chest, but my lips twitch despite myself. "I handled you just fine."
His laugh is low, rich, curling through me like warm honey.
He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to my jaw, then my neck, then—too soon—he pulls away, rolling onto his back beside me with a contented sigh.
I stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way my heart is too full, my body too satisfied, my mind already turning over what this means.
I don’t do relationships.
Neither does he.
And yet?—
"So," I say, breaking the silence, my voice subdued. Exhaustion has begun settling in, and now that I think about it, it’s been a while since I had food, real food. The coffee I drank earlier churns in my stomach, and I make a face. "What now?"
Marco turns his head, looking at me, studying me. Then he grins, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
"Now?" He scrolls through something. "Now we eat."
I blink. "What?"
He holds the phone up, showing me the screen. A food delivery app, an order already placed.
Szechuan beef. Dumplings. Scallion pancakes. Hot and sour soup.
I blink again, warmth blooming in my chest, completely unprepared for this softness, for this man who just fucked mewithin an inch of my life and now wants to feed me like I’m something precious.
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You ordered before you got here?"
He smirks, tucking his hands behind his head. "Had a feeling I’d work up an appetite."
I snort, shaking my head, but I don’t argue.
Because the truth is, I like this—the easy comfort, the quiet between us that doesn’t feel like a gaping void.
But I also know better.
This thing between us—if we let it turn into something real, something with strings, one of us will get burned.
Maybe both of us.
So, we do need to speak about it, although I don’t want to right now. Stifling a yawn, I exhale, stretching lazily. "Marco?—"
