by Sofia Tate
Her hands roam through my hair, fisting it tight, which only pushes me to the brink. Her muscles lock and she shudders in release, her warm essence spilling onto my tongue. I lick every single drop of it, savoring the taste of her in my mouth.
My dick is as hard as a fucking boulder. I need to be inside her now more than I need my next damn breath.
I yank her off the counter, then roughly turn her around to face away from me.
“I’m taking you from behind,” I growl at her.
“Please, Davison,” she begs in a husky voice, pushing her round, gorgeous ass toward me.
I take my cock in my hand, finding her sex, and smoothly slide myself into her. We moan simultaneously at the feel of us joined together. She is so hot and tight. Pure fucking bliss.
I grip her hips tightly and begin to thrust into her.
“Hard, baby,” Allegra pants. “I need it hard.”
She knows what I need. She knows me.
I start to pummel her. The only sounds in the apartment are our grunts and our flesh slapping against each other.
I won’t stop until she comes for me. I want to hear my name on her lips when she climaxes because she is mine. I need to hear it.
Her sex clamps down on me like a damn vise. She is about to explode.
“Oh, fuck… Davison!” she shouts.
Her body shakes in release, sweat pouring down her back. My muscles lock, and I spurt into her over and over as I cry out in fucking ecstasy.
We stay still, panting hard until I catch my breath. I tug her to me, our sweat mixing together, my front to her back. Our legs are shaking. We can barely stand. She doesn’t protest when I carefully ease out of her and pull her down with me to the floor.
Immediately, she wraps herself around me, our bodies now entwined.
She yawns. “Mmmm… I could probably fall asleep right here.”
“Sounds good to me. I can’t move.”
“Same here.” I can hear the smile in her voice without needing to see it on her face.
I run my hands through her silky hair as she places soft kisses on my collarbone.
“So, back to my original question, Harvard,” she murmurs into my neck.
“Yeah?”
“Lasagna or manicotti?”
I laugh out loud, holding her tighter to me. I kiss her hair, bringing it to my nose and inhaling her coconut shampoo. I shut my eyes in silent thanks for this woman who loves me unconditionally. “Whatever you want, baby. Whatever you fucking want.”
Chapter Five
Allegra
Eleven employees of Saxon Management, six men and five women, are sitting around a cherrywood conference table, all of them with their heads lowered as they check their cell phones. Drinking glasses and pitchers of water are placed in the center down the length of it. I’m at one end, with my manager Jared at my left. I stare at a black binder with the title STRATEGY SESSION FOR ALLEGRA ORSINI emblazoned across it.
“Let’s get started, everyone,” Jared announces to open the meeting. “First, I’d like to welcome our star of the moment, Allegra Orsini.”
I smile and nod to acknowledge the light applause in the room.
“Please turn to the table of contents so we can review what will be discussed today.”
I open the binder along with everyone else. The headings pop out at me, black ink bold against the white paper—DEBUT CD, ENDORSEMENT POSSIBILITIES, INTERNATIONAL RECITAL TOUR. Then one particular section catches my eye—WARDROBE CHOICES FOR LA BOHÈME OPENING NIGHT.
Shivers run up and down my arms as I quickly flip to it. Jared’s voice is white noise as pictures of various evening gowns look up at me from the binder.
I glare back at the page. “Excuse me,” I whisper under my breath.
Jared keeps talking.
“Excuse me,” I repeat in a much stronger voice this time so I know I have his attention.
Jared finally pauses. “Yes, Allegra?”
I point down at the pictures. “This section with the dresses. What is it?”
My manager lets out a laugh, sounding as if he were caught off guard. “Look at you, clever girl, skipping ahead. We’ll talk about it when we get there.”
My blood starts to course hot throughout my body at the sound of condescension in his voice, clenching my hands together with my fingernails digging into my palms as I attempt to maintain some semblance of control. “No, I’d like to talk about it now.”
A fake smile appears across Jared’s lips. “Those are a few choices that your stylist is considering for you for opening night.”
“I choose my own dresses, Jared,” I inform him pointedly.
He laughs again, this time a bit more awkwardly. “Of course you do, Allegra. And you will choose one from a selection that our stylist finds. You’re so lucky to have her on your team. Do you know who she’s worked with in Hollywood?”
I purse my lips together, then take a deep breath. “I don’t give a damn who she’s worked with. I’ll find a dress on my own. I know my taste. I have my favorite boutiques and vintage stores. I have a tailor who’ll alter it if necessary.”
A few snickers resound around the room, and I don’t know if it’s from the revelation that I shop at vintage stores or that I talked back to Jared.
Some woman speaks up, “Allegra, I totally understand what you’re saying, I do. But we have to develop your brand as a team. Image is everything in this business.”
I exhale and glance at Jared before I address the group. “Look, I truly appreciate what Jared and all of you are doing for me, and I’m grateful. This is just new for me, so there’ll be a bit of a learning curve for me. Please understand that I’m slowly getting used to being back in the spotlight because of being with Davison. But I’m going to say this only once—I’m choosing my own damn dresses.”
Silence falls over the room.
My knees start to shake under the table.
This isn’t me. The dresses, the image. None of it.
“Allegra,” Jared begins, this time a bit more stern, when the opening notes of “Nessun Dorma,” one of Pavarotti’s signature arias, fill the room. I reach into my purse for my ringing phone.
I swipe it open. “Papa, what’s wrong?”
“I need to see you, cara. Can you come to the shop as soon as you can?”
At the sound of his voice shaking over the phone, I push back from the table. “I’ll be right there.”
I grab the binder and sling my purse over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“Umm, Allegra, this is a meeting about you and your career,” Jared practically growls at me.
I turn to him and look him directly in the eyes so there’s no cause for misunderstanding.
“My father comes first, Jared. Always has, always will.”
* * *
Charles pulls the Maybach over in the front of the apartment building on Mulberry Street in Little Italy, where I lived my entire life before I moved in with Davison.
I push through the door of the shop, where I’m confronted with two men in business suits, one of them measuring the counter with a retractable tape measure, the other making notes on his phone, and my father leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed and eyes glaring at the men with pure disgust.
I don’t need to talk to Papa to know that whatever those two men are doing, it’s not with his approval. “Excuse me! Who the hell are you and what do you think you’re doing?” I shout at them.
The two men swivel their heads to me, both young, from the looks of them probably in their twenties in their ill-fitting suits that they probably bought to go on job interviews.
“And you are?” one of them dares to ask me.
Oh no, he did not just say that to me. “I’m Allegra Orsini, and this is my father’s shop. So I will repeat myself: who the fuck are you?”
The tall, blond, blue-eyed one whose look totally screams “frat boy” straightens and looks me in the eye as his eyes roam over my
body. “We work for the future owner of this building, Mr. Brett Pryce.”
I dig my nails into my palms, doing the best I can to keep myself calm. I turn to my father. “What is he talking about, Papa?”
He steps forward to me, silently handing me a piece of paper. Some tacky logo is embossed at the top with Mr. Brett Pryce’s name emblazoned in a gaudy font, with the body of the letter detailing his future purchase of the building, including the shop and Papa’s apartment, the apartment where I grew up.
I’ve read enough. My right hand crunches the paper, its sound bouncing off the tiled walls of the shop.
I pivot back to the two assholes. “According to this, the purchase has not been completed.”
Frat Boy smirks. “No, it hasn’t. But it’s just a matter of time until it happens.”
I swallow in my throat to gird myself. This boy needs to be schooled, Italian-style. I walk up to the smart-ass, thrusting the crumpled letter into his chest. He rears back from the impact of my fist into his body, and I allow myself a quick triumphant smile. “Here’s a news flash for you, Frat Boy. This piece of paper does not constitute a legal sale. Nobody needs to explain that to me, not even my fiancé, Davison Cabot Berkeley, the former president and CEO of Berkeley Holdings. Surely you know who he is.”
“Yes, I do,” he replies, his eyes locked on mine, but with his pursed lips and clenched jaw, I can tell I just unnerved him.
I take one more deep breath before I finish verbally wiping the floor with this prick. “Good, so I don’t have to buy you a clue. Now I want you and your buddy over there to get the fuck out of my father’s shop and if I see or hear that you’ve returned, I’m calling the local precinct because I’ve got them on speed dial, as does my father. The detectives there, they’re my father’s Saturday-night poker buddies, and they love Jimmy. That’s what they call him, so if you dare step foot in here again, you’ll be faced with a wall of blue the second you turn your back.”
Frat Boy exhales, his eyes blazing fire at me. He pauses for a second, then growls, still glaring at me, “Scott, let’s go,” at the other guy.
The other guy brushes past us on the way out. Frat Boy gives me one more dirty, lascivious look. That’s it. “I said get out, asshole,” I hiss under my breath.
I stand perfectly still, daring him to say something else, but instead, he exhales deeply, his chest deflating in defeat, and walks out the door.
I hear steps behind me before the feel of my father’s strong hands envelop my shoulders. “Cara, I don’t play poker.”
I smile. “I know that, but they didn’t.”
He kisses the back of my head. “My brave girl. So proud of you.”
I twist back around to look at my father, his sweet eyes still worried. “You forget, Papa. Not only am I a New Yorker, but I’m also Italian. Sono italiana.”
He cups my chin in his right hand, the grimace now gone from his face, his eyes glowing with pride. I give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Come on, Papa. You need a drink. Let’s go upstairs so you can tell me the whole story. Andiamo.”
I grab the crumpled letter from the floor and lead my father out, waiting for him to lock the door. Once we’re upstairs in our kitchen, I grab the Sambuca, his favorite, from the liquor cabinet and pour us both a shot. I lean down and give him a quick kiss on the cheek, settling down into the chair next to him.
We clink glasses and quickly drink the bittersweet alcohol, wincing as it goes down.
Once we let the Sambuca warm our insides, I unfold the letter on the table. “Okay, Papa. According to this, the apartments are going to be made into co-ops. What about the shop?”
Papa sighs. “Non lo so. I really don’t know. All of my customers are old or dead, none of their children or grandchildren live in the neighborhood, so I can’t depend on their business. As much as I want to keep it, I don’t see the point.”
“But there is a point, Papa,” I counter. “Your shop is an institution in this neighborhood. Everyone loves you. If they hear you’re selling it, they’ll be devastated.”
“If I sold it, I’d have enough money to make the apartment co-op,” he tells me reluctantly.
I take a deep breath. “I can talk to Davison. I know he would give you the money with no strings.”
He picks up the glass and slams it back down on the table. “No! Assolutamente non! I will not take charity from anyone, most of all your fiancé!”
“Papa, I can tell you with absolute certainty that he could do it and he would without hesitation.”
He takes my hand in his. “Cara, I know that he would because he is a good man. Believe me, I wouldn’t approve of him marrying you if I thought he wasn’t. But this is my life, my business, and I need to handle it my way.”
I exhale. “Okay, Papa. But just think about it, okay?”
“Sì,” he nods, patting my hand. “I will. Now, I have some leftover tiramisu in the fridge. Would you like some?”
I raise my eyebrows at him, giving him a look.
He laughs. “I know. Silly question.”
I laugh in return and peck him on the cheek. “Ti amo, Papa.”
He embraces me tightly. “Ti amo anch’io, cara.”
* * *
“I swear to God, if I see one circus acrobat or a mariachi band, I’m leaving,” Davison informs me.
“I wouldn’t be surprised, though. This is Lucy we’re talking about. And this was your idea, big mouth,” I remind him.
I can hear him hissing in reply as I laugh out loud at my fiancé’s reaction.
Davison and I are holding hands as we ride up in the elevator of Lucy’s apartment building in Tribeca. She lives with her parents in a loft, which they bought before Tribeca was known for its designer boutiques and trendy restaurants. The building was a warehouse back in the day, then it was converted into huge, cavernous lofts, with only seven residences in the entire building. Lucy’s family lives on the top floor, with a beautiful roof garden and terrace.
No matter how many times I visit Lucy at home, I never know what to expect when I open the front door, and this time is no exception. Her father, Nigel, a tall Englishman, is an international dealer of modern art and well respected in his field, and usually when I walk in, his latest acquisition is sitting or hanging somewhere prominently in the foyer. And today, right in the center of the room, sits a stunning piece—a tall sculpture of a spider that fills up practically the entire space.
“Gorgeous,” Davison remarks in awe. “I’m guessing it’s a Louise Bourgeois.”
“You’d be correct, young man,” a posh British accent comments behind us.
Davison and I both look up and come face-to-face with Lucy’s father, Nigel, tall and thin with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed casually but smartly in a pink button-down shirt, pressed blue jeans, and cocoa-brown suede loafers.
“Mr. Gibbons, it’s so nice to see you again,” I greet him as he leans in to kiss me on the cheek.
“Lovely to see you as well, Allegra. And I assume this is the young lad in question whom you’ve enraptured?”
Davison laughs. “Yes, sir. Completely. Davison Berkeley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand to Lucy’s father, who shakes Davison’s hand firmly in return. “Looking around, I must say you have an impressive collection.”
“Thank you. The pleasure is all mine,” Mr. Gibbons replies. “Do you collect?”
“I have only a few pieces, a Rothko in particular that I’m fond of, but I’m always open to acquiring more.”
“We should talk, then. Find me later,” he tells Davison.
Davison nods his head. “Absolutely. I look forward to it.”
“Well, then, let’s get you to the party,” Mr. Gibbons declares. “If my daughter knew I was keeping you, I’d never hear the bloody end of it.”
He leads us farther into the loft, where the party is set up outside, with paper lanterns hanging from string hung all around the open space, and pink flowers in various forms, from peonies to
roses, sitting in vases scattered all over the terrace. Round tables are set up covered in vintage linens, with a temporary bar standing to the side.
“About damn time!” Lucy shouts from across the terrace.
A DJ is set up in one corner, playing bossa nova music over the speakers.
“No opera music today, Alli, I promise,” she says as she greets me with a hug.
“Brace yourself, Lucy. I actually don’t mind opera music,” I remind her.
“I know, but I thought a break would be nice, so it’s going to be a nice mix of bossa nova tonight, maybe some classic eighties…”
“Joan Jett, perhaps?” Davison asks while simultaneously grinning at me wickedly, as if I needed to be reminded of the time I sang “Bad Reputation” to him on a karaoke machine while decked out all in leather, from the bustier to the boots with the six-inch heels, before he asked me to move in with him, sealing the moment with a marriage proposal, the best night of my life.
Lucy looks at him quizzically. “Yeah, I guess. I’m sure he has some of her songs. Look, go eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves. I have to go yell at the caterer now for forgetting to put out the miniquiches and bacon-wrapped scallops like I asked her to do fifteen minutes ago.”
Davison and I watch Lucy walk away in a huff.
“Drink?” he offers.
“Like you need to ask.”
As I watch Davison wander over to the bar, I don’t see Papa or anyone else from my family, like Derek and Aaron or Davison’s mother, but I do spot some former classmates from the conservatory, and I make my way over to them, embracing them and catching up with what’s been going on in their lives.
A strong, warm hand suddenly lands on my shoulder. I turn and find Davison holding two glasses of champagne. “Thanks, baby,” I tell him, taking one flute of the bubbly liquid from him, clinking glasses with him, then quickly making the necessary introductions.