by Sofia Tate
My wife and daughter’s loud conversation has now attracted the attention of my son, who is looking over at his mom and sister arguing about something as simple as hair.
“I know, son,” I whisper to Jack. “Don’t worry. We’ll never be like that. We men have to stick together. You and me. Yankees games, fishing trips, I’ll take you everywhere, even taking you to see the World Cup wherever they have it. I’ve got your back. But just one thing—you have to go to Harvard. I know that your godfather, Ian, is going to entice you with scintillating tales about life at Yale and do his best to make you a Bulldog, but that’s not going to happen. Your blood runs Crimson. That’s a Berkeley thing, and you’re a Berkeley man. Nothing but the best for you. Deal?”
My son replies with a gurgle and more gentle punches to my face with his small fists as I laugh and plant kisses all over his sweet cheeks.
Allegra appears at our side and collapses on the sofa next to me. “Your daughter will be the death of me.”
“Oh, now she’s my daughter?”
She takes Jack from me, who instantly wraps his pudgy arms around his mother’s neck. “Yes, because I plan to send her to boarding school the second she’s old enough and stay home with my sweet boy,” she replies in a teasing manner.
“Sorry, baby, but Jack and I just made a deal where we’re going to do man stuff like sporting events and adventure vacations. No girls allowed.”
“Ganging up on me already, huh?” She sighs. “I honestly don’t know where she gets it.”
I laugh out loud, doubling over from the shock of how oblivious my wife can be sometimes. “Are you serious? That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. I’m going to start calling you Pot instead of Venus, and our daughter will be known from now on as Kettle.”
“She does not get it from me!”
I shake my head in amused exasperation. Allegra rises to her feet with our son. “Time to feed the young man. I’ll be back after I put him down.”
“I’ll be waiting, baby.”
“Better be. And make sure our oldest stays out of trouble.”
“Easier said than done.”
Allegra flashes me one last smile before she heads into the house.
The smell of baking pizza wafts over from the terrace. After we bought the house, I had an outdoor oven installed so we could enjoy fresh-baked pizzas during our vacations. I can hear Mr. Orsini saying something to my mother, then her amused reaction. Every time I ask her about her relationship with him, she contends that they’re just friends, thrown together by circumstance since they share two grandchildren. But the more time they spend together, the more I think they’re getting serious, which is fine with me, because after what my father put her through, I want her to be happy like I am.
It’s been an amazing first summer here. We made sure that our family and friends knew they were welcome to visit us anytime. La Diva drives up from her opulent villa outside Milan for dinner at least once a week, once bringing Signora Pavoni as a surprise for Allegra. Ian and Ashton stopped by for two nights before they continued on their way to Greece, and Derek and Aaron stayed with us for a week after their holiday on Sardinia with friends. And even though we gave him the entire month off, Charles even visited us for a bit because he said he missed his family. Before arriving here, we also spent a week with Luca Montes, Allegra’s former costar, and his family at their sumptuous villa on Majorca.
I take a long sip of my Peroni beer, watching my daughter fight like mad for the ball. I spot Allegra making her way back to me, lemonade in hand.
Once she sits down next to me, I stretch out my arm and bring her closer to me.
“Down for the count?”
“Yup, out like a light. Papa and Mona said they’d check on him in a bit.” She pauses, then whispers, “I don’t want to leave yet.”
I snuggle her closer to me. “I know. We still have a few weeks, and this place isn’t going anywhere. We’ll come back as often as we can. But you have something exciting to look forward to, Ms. Artistic Director of Opera Education at Gotham Conservatory.”
“It’s so overwhelming. Class syllabi, committee decisions…”
“You can do it, baby. Remember how much you loved teaching that Puccini class? You were a natural with the students. Signora Pavoni knew what she was doing when she submitted your name for the position.”
“You’re right. One step at a time. There is a huge advantage to the position.”
“What’s that?”
She kisses me softly on the neck. “Summers off.”
I hold my wife tighter to me. “Definitely. After reading the last quarterly reports for DCB, I might be able to take the entire summer off next year too.”
My wife’s head turns to me, her entire face lit up by her glorious smile. “Really? That good?”
“Better than good, baby. Better than I’d ever hoped possible.”
Allegra wraps her arms around me. “Davison, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, or mine, for that matter.”
“We need to celebrate,” she announces. “Once the kids are down tonight, I think we should head into town for dinner, and then take the long way home, like around the entire lake, and stop to take in the view.”
“And would we do anything besides taking in the view, Mrs. Berkeley?”
She leans into me, her warm breath on my ear as she whispers to me, “Well, if we take the SUV and not your flashy sports car, we would have more room to do other things.”
“But think of the fun we’d have trying to do those other things squeezed in so tightly together,” I counter.
“Hmm… Love the way you think, Harvard. It’s a date.”
Allegra lays her head down once more onto my shoulder as we watch our daughter playing and laughing, her ponytail flying behind her.
I fucking love my life, all thanks to the woman cradled in my arms, her coconut-scented hair filling my nose with its irresistible scent as it did from the start, her curvy, luscious body arousing me now more than ever, making me desperate for dinner and our drive, when we will ravage each other like beasts, satisfying my craving for my wife, which never dissipates.
“What’s wrong, Davison? You look so serious.”
I kiss her hair to settle her nerves. “Far from it, baby. Just thinking about tonight.”
My wife remains silent, simply holding me closer to tell me that she understands, as she always does.
* * *
Allegra
New York City. One month later…
Lying outside on a double chaise on the terrace of our new Tribeca penthouse loft, which we bought six months ago, a thin, cotton quilt covering us, we stare into each other’s eyes. The sounds of the city envelop us, our strategy so that the groans and grunts when we make love will be swallowed up by the noise, as our children remain inside, Jack asleep in his crib and Serena coloring in her bedroom, impervious to what their parents are doing—trying to get in some sexy time before the end of Labor Day weekend and returning to our jobs tomorrow. Once we made sure the coast was clear, we snuck outside, turning on the iPod sitting in its dock so our song, “Avalon,” could play on a loop while we made love.
Davison’s rock-hard cock is sheathed inside me by my tight muscles. He starts to move, thrusting into me as I throw my head back. I will never tire of the feel of my husband pummeling me, his eyes blazing with his desire for me, his hot breath caressing my face as he urges me on.
I moan in ecstasy, which instantly turns him into a primal beast, biting down on my breasts, trailing his mouth up my chest to my neck, licking it and sucking on my flesh.
“Oh, Davison…” I exclaim in pure rapture, my fingernails digging into his back.
“That’s it, baby. God, I love the sounds you make when I fuck you,” he groans. “You make me so hot. And you’re always drenched for me. Love your sweet pussy.”
“Always,” I whisper. “Always… D
on’t stop.”
“You’re going to come so hard for me, Allegra,” he grunts as he reaches between us, feeling around for my clit. My body jumps in reaction to his skillful fingers, bucking under him as he rubs the swollen nub over and over. My pussy clenches him, and I moan in beautiful release.
Davison begins to pound into me. I love this. I revel in it—the pain, the soreness to come, knowing that I can do this to him, that I turn him into a savage with one clench of my pussy on his engorged cock.
The veins in his neck strain against his flesh as he comes, shooting himself into me until I absorb every last blissful drop.
We fall into each other’s arms, my fingers trailing softly up and down his back, his heart beating against mine, our breaths panting at mutual speed.
“Fuck,” he pants into my shoulder.
“Mmmm. Indeed, Harvard,” I purr in reply.
Davison shifts to his side and brings me closer to him. He brushes my matted hair off my forehead, kissing it softly.
The warm look in his eyes melts my insides. It is a look of satisfaction and pure love.
“Thank you, Davison,” I whisper.
“For what, baby?”
“For everything you’ve given me. For our children, for you. I’ve never been happier in my life. And you know what I love most about you?”
He smirks. “My drop-dead-gorgeous body?”
I smack him on the shoulder. “No, smart-ass.”
He frowns at me. “I’m now officially offended, not just for that but because you say there’s only one thing you love most about me.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m trying to be serious here.”
He kisses me quickly on the lips. “Sorry, Venus. Go on.”
“Your respect for me. You always believed in me and encouraged me in my singing, and you never thought less of me when I lost my voice. You’ve always treated me like a woman deserves to be treated by a man, and for that, I consider myself to be the luckiest woman on the planet.”
Davison visibly swallows in his throat. He takes a deep breath, then takes my face in his hands and gives me a long, slow, deep kiss.
When he pulls back, he cups my face so he can look me straight in the eyes. “I’m the lucky one, Allegra. I don’t even want to think about what my life would be like now if I’d never lost that damn glove. My life is so much richer now because of you and the children you gave me. Gave us. And it’s only going to get better from here, because you’re stuck with me.”
Tears fall down my face as I stare back at my husband. “Forever,” I declare.
Davison beams in return. “Forever, Allegra.”
The sound of a crying baby interrupts our moment of reverie, bombarding us from the baby monitor standing on the side table next to the chaise. Then, without fail, Serena’s shouts coming through the screen door assault our ears. “Daddy! Where are you? I need you NOW!”
“Now, Daddy,” I repeat, giving him a knowing smirk.
With a groan, we readjust our clothes under the quilt, throwing it to the side as Davison sits up and rises to his feet, giving me his hand gallantly. We stretch together, then fold into each other’s arms.
“I’ll take Jack. You take Serena,” I instruct him.
“Meet you in the bedroom, Venus?”
I smile back at him, so full of love for my husband. “See you there, Harvard.”
We give each other one last kiss and step through the patio door hand in hand, sliding it shut behind us as we head back into our home to tend to our beautiful, screaming children.
THE END
About the Author
Sofia Tate grew up in Maplewood, New Jersey, the oldest of three children in a bilingual family. She was raised on ’70s disaster films and ’80s British New Wave music and classic TV miniseries. Her love for reading started when she received a set of Judy Blume books from her aunt when she was ten. She discovered erotic romance thanks to Charlotte Featherstone. She loves both writing and reading erotic romance. She graduated from Marymount College in Tarrytown, New York, with a degree in International Studies and a minor in Italian. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University. She has lived in London and Prague. Sofia currently resides in New York City.
Learn more at:
SofiaTate.com
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Don’t miss the extraordinary romance of Lucy and Tomas in Sofia Tate’s new novella
CRAZY FOR HIM
Available Fall 2015
To see how Davison and Allegra’s story began, please see the next page for an excerpt from
Breathless for Him
Available now!
Chapter One
“Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I watch as the last of the patrons don their camel-hair coats and calf-length sable furs. Before they leave, the owner makes sure to shake each of their hands. As they exit, the black velvet curtain that covers the front door swishes like a whisper against the marble floor, shielding the interior of the restaurant from the chilly November air. They shuffle their way out to begin the search for their town cars, a fleet of which stand outside on Broadway, engines idling, waiting to be claimed.
I’m standing inside my work space, which happens to be the coat-check room of Le Bistro, a restaurant that is an institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Like Sardi’s in the Theater District, Le Bistro is its equivalent, except it serves the opera buffs, cineastes, and ballet lovers of Lincoln Center. Its owner is Elias Crawford, one of New York City’s most well-known restaurateurs, known for his charm, sophistication, and meticulous attention to detail.
Dressed in my standard uniform of a white long-sleeved blouse with French cuffs, black trousers, and black ballet flats, my dark brown hair done up in its usual chignon, I turn and take in my surroundings. Technically, my work space is a closet, lined with clothing rods for coats and jackets and shelves for handbags and briefcases. Since I began working there, I have checked an eclectic collection of items, from a famous rock star’s red leather jacket pockmarked with cigarette burns to a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk that took up most of the traffic pattern.
Lola, the statuesque hostess, pokes her head in the door. “We’re done, Allegra. You can start closing up.”
I nod. I begin to wrap the plastic check numbers in an elastic band, stowing them in the shoe box that I use as a Lost and Found. I count my tips and tuck them into my purse.
As I take one last survey of the room, I spot two objects on the floor. One is a black-and-white silk scarf, the name HERMÈS imprinted in the lower right-hand corner.
The other is a man’s driving glove, brown lambskin, cashmere-lined, with initials stitched on the inseam—DCB.
I stow both items in my Lost and Found shoe box. Perhaps the owners will collect them in the next few days.
* * *
“Did you hear about Davison’s latest venture? He’s flying to China to check out some new company that’s doing amazing stuff with voice technology.”
“Ha! ‘Voice technology,’ my ass! The only voice he’s concerned about getting away from belongs to that shrew girlfriend of his, Ashton. She’s got a hot body, but she’s a total bitch—at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
That’s what gossip is to me. Hearsay. It’s common for someone to approach me while I’m working, offering me monetary compensation for any kernel of gossip that involves a celebrity. Because of its trendy status and location, Le Bistro attracts everyone from politicians to film stars to opera divas, basically anyone who’s ever appeared in Vanity Fair. I knew since I began working here six months ago that if someone really wanted the truth about a scandal, the people to eavesdrop on were the doctors and lawyers who came into the restaurant. But I treat my place of work as a confessional; whatever I overhear will never be passed on to a third party.
The two men ret
rieving their coats are discussing the couple whose names and faces were featured almost every day on Page Six—Davison Cabot Berkeley, the Manhattan billionaire and heir to the Berkeley Holdings fortune, and Ashton Lane Canterbury, the heiress of the Canterbury family. Since they’re the “it couple” of Manhattan, their histories are well known thanks to the tabloids and business pages. They’re childhood friends. He has the proper pedigree: age thirty-one, prepped at Exeter, undergrad and MBA from Harvard, while she went to Miss Porter’s and Wellesley.
A match made in WASP heaven.
It’s funny, though, because every time I see their photo in the paper, she always looks much happier than he does, as if he would rather be anyplace else than with her. My life is far removed from the circles they travel in, but seeing such a handsome man so miserable with the woman he supposedly loves, I wonder if he is truly in love with her. I’m twenty-four, a butcher’s daughter, but I don’t envy their social or financial status in society.
I’m putting away the men’s tips in my purse when a sharp knock on the flat ledge of the coat-check room’s half door brings me back to the present moment.
“Excuse me? Are you working or not?”
At the door stands a tall woman with platinum-blonde hair that cascades down the back of her fur coat, a black crocodile Birkin hanging in the crook of her elbow.
“I said, did you happen to find a black-and-white Hermès scarf two nights ago?” her voice shrills above the cacophony of the restaurant. Her thin, oval-shaped face holds an exasperated look, while her blue eyes burn my face like a set of lasers.
“I did. Just a moment, I’ll retrieve it for you.”