Calculated Obsession

I woke to the weight of a stare. It wasn’t the soft, flickering gaze of streetlights through my blinds. No—this was deliberate. Heavy. Hungry. My eyes snapped open, and there he was. Luca Moretti sat in the armchair by the window, his silhouette sharp against the pale glow of the city. One leg was casually crossed over the other, his fingers rested under his chin like he’d been studying me for hours. His eyes—dark, unblinking—locked onto mine, and my breath caught. I let out a wild cry, in fear as my eyes adjusted to the light in the room and fixed its focus. “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, scrambling upright. The sheets slipped, and I yanked them to my chest, my pulse roaring in my ears. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking. “You blocked me.” “Because you’re a stalker!” My voice cracked. “How did you even get in?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, his movements slow and predatory, like a wolf circling prey. My bedroom suddenly felt too small, the air thick with the scent of his cologne—smoke and leather and something primal. “Unblock me,” he said, his voice low and velvety. A command, not a request. “Or what?” I spat, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me. He closed the distance between us in two strides, his hand slamming against the headboard as he leaned over me. The heat of his body pressed against mine, and I hated how my skin prickled in response. “I have already made my way in here. That should tell you that I’m serious. Don’t make me angry,” he murmured, his breath skimming my ear. “You don’t want to see that side of me, scienziata.” The nickname—scientist—sent a shiver down my spine. He’d whispered it that first night, his lips trailing down my throat as I’d gasped into the dark. “This isn’t a game, Luca,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “No?” He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch light as a feather. “Then why do you keep running?” I flinched. Three dates. Three reckless, electric nights where I’d let myself forget he was trouble. Then I blocked him, deleted his number, and buried myself in work. Classic Elena Rossi—logic over chaos, always. But here he was. Chaos incarnate. “Unblock. Me.” His voice hardened, and his hand slid to my throat, not squeezing, just… claiming. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers shaking as I unblocked his number. Instantly, the screen lit up—47 missed calls, 23 voicemails, a torrent of texts that made my stomach churn. Luca: Answer. Luca: Elena. Luca: You can’t hide from me. “Satisfied?” I snapped, thrusting the phone at him. As the notification sound beeped nonstop. He didn’t glance at it. His thumb traced my jawline, calloused and possessive. “You shouldn’t have cut me off.” “We had a fling. It’s over.” His gaze turned molten. “It’s not over until I say it’s over.” For a heartbeat, I thought he’d kiss me. His lips hovered inches from mine, his breath mingling with mine, and God, I wanted him to. Hated that I wanted him to. Then he pulled back, straightening his suit jacket with infuriating calm. “I’ll see you soon, Elena. You can block me online but you can't stop me from seeing you in person. Don’t make me have to do this again, OK? "Pick up when I call, or I'll show up to that hole you call a lab and make a spectacle of burning it to the ground,” he said with a sexy, evil smirk. God! I hate how much this turns me on. He left as quietly as he’d arrived, slipping into the shadows of the hallway. I collapsed against the pillows, my phone buzzing again. Luca: Sweet dreams. I tossed the phone to a corner as I let my mind wander to the night that started this insane chase. That night, the club throbbed with bass, neon lights strobing over bodies pressed too close. Mia, my best friend since childhood, shoved a tequila shot into my hand, her grin sharp. “Welcome home, genius. "Time to live a little.” She had asked me to come out with her the moment my ass got off the plane. We hadn’t seen each other since I went abroad for my masters and doctorate, so I reluctantly agreed. I downed it, the burn a welcome distraction from the jet lag. “I’m here for science, not parties.” “Science won’t keep you warm at night,” she sing-songed, dragging me toward the dance floor. That’s when the server appeared— a crisp black suit, practiced smile. “Dr. Rossi? Mr. Moretti has arranged VIP seating for you and your friend.” I frowned. “Who’s Mr. Moretti?” Mia froze. “Luca Moretti. Rich. Dangerous. Doesn’t do relationships.” She lowered her voice. “Like, ever. Rumor says he’s allergic to feelings.” “Perfect,” I said, already tipsy enough to ignore the warning. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.” The VIP section was quieter, all plush velvet and champagne flutes. And there he was—Luca, lounging at the center of a booth like a king. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. His gaze pinned me the moment I stepped in. “Elena Rossi,” he said, voice like poured whiskey. “Finally.” I arched my brow. “Do I know you?” “High school. You tutored me in chemistry.” A smirk. “Failed anyway.” Recognition flickered—vague memories of a brooding boy slouched in the back of class, all quiet intensity. “You’re the one who set the lab on fire.” He laughed, low and dark. “Guilty.” He gestured for me to sit. Mia shot me a what-are-you-doing look, but I ignored her. Up close, he was… magnetic. Danger wrapped in Armani. “Why the VIP treatment?” I asked. His gaze raked over me. “I wanted to see if you’re as brilliant as they say.” “They?” “The journals. Your research on neural regeneration.” He swirled his drink. “Revolutionary. Or reckless, depending on who you ask.” I stiffened. “For someone who failed basic high school chemistry after intense tutoring from me, I’m surprised you know anything about my kind of research. You’ve read my work?” “Every paper.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re playing God, scienziata. It’s… fascinating.” The way he said it—like a challenge—lit a fire in my veins. “Jealous?” He leaned closer, his knee brushing mine. “Curious.” The tequila hummed in my blood. “About my work? Or me?” His hand slid up my thigh under the table. “Both.” That night was the first time I tasted I got entangled with him. His voice was dripped with an intoxicating attraction, like liquor, luring you in, then driving you mad. Even now, I could still hear it and it sent shivers down my spine. Lost in the thoughts, I found myself fondling with my own breasts. The arousal consumed me. I should be fully against this, his behavior, this crazy desire, but I just can’t find it in me. My hands snuck deeper, caressing my lower abdomen as it made its way into my panties. What a shame. He was just there. I should have grabbed him by the collar and made him take responsibility for my current state. I should have held him back and let him take me like he had before. But I didn’t, and instead I was lying in bed treating my clit like a guitar string while I tried hard to replay images of him in my head. After about half an hour of ‘self-care’, I heard my phone buzz again. Picking it up, I pressed a hand to my racing heart. "You’re mine," he said in his short-worded text. A threat. A promise. I simply tossed the phone to the side once more and went back to sleep. I don’t have time for this, I still have work in the morning. Except when I got up and got ready for work, I got a call from the police followed by an email from my lab assistant—URGENT: Sabotage in Lab 3B—and I froze.