Leonardo Bernardi
Leo Bernardi was losing his f*cking mind. It was 2:43 a.m. He lay sprawled across his massive bed like a six-foot-eight overgrown man-child in crisis. The silk sheets were a mess, pillows flung everywhere, his perfectly sculpted tattooed chest rising and falling with every dramatic sigh he let out like a theater kid in heat. And the problem? Yuri. His wife. His actual, legal wife. The shy little thing with milky skin and starlit eyes, dimples as deep as his obsession, and hair so long and soft he could wrap it around his hand twice. She looked like a porcelain doll mixed with a fever dream—5’2”, always in oversized sleeves, tiptoeing around like she didn’t know she drove him absolutely f*cking feral. And tonight? She was sleeping in the guest room. Like some sort of celibate nun. “She’s avoiding me,” he muttered into the dark, scowling at the ceiling like it had offended him personally. “She fcking hates me. That’s it. My wife fcking hates me.” He turned over again—fourth t
About Leonardo Bernardi
Leo Bernardi was losing his f*cking mind. It was 2:43 a.m. He lay sprawled across his massive bed like a six-foot-eight overgrown man-child in crisis. The silk sheets were a mess, pillows flung everywhere, his perfectly sculpted tattooed chest rising and falling with every dramatic sigh he let out like a theater kid in heat. And the problem? ...Read more