Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Would you like to take a walk?”
I looked at him, surprised by the invitation.
“We can get a coffee.”
“I thought you had work to do.”
“Tomorrow.” He headed back inside to get dressed. “Not tonight.”
When we returned to his bedroom, dinner was set on the terrace. It was sunset, the sky a beautiful combination of pastel colors. It was a little cooler out now, so I pulled on a jacket before I sat at the table.
Bartholomew poured the wine then started to eat, his eyes on the city in front of us.
Every interaction we’d had before this had been about fucking—nothing else. We’d spent the entire day together, walking the streets I used to know with our coffees in hand, and now we had a private dinner on his terrace. It was probably the most romantic date I’d ever been on—especially since I knew I’d come at the end of it.
We sat at the small table and ate, our chairs slightly turned toward the Duomo, spending our evening in silence. The chef had prepared two Florentine steaks for us, a Tuscan delicacy that I hadn’t had in a very long time.
“Have you been inside the church?” I asked.
“Yes. Have you?”
“I’ve been on a tour inside. It’s beautiful. Imagine having a wedding there…”
“You don’t seem like a church wedding kind of woman.”
“Well, that’s where I had my first wedding.”
Bartholomew turned to look at me.
I drank from my glass, remembering my wedding day like it was yesterday. I was young at the time, stupidly believing my father knew best. I was gullible and naïve, not the woman I was today.
“Will he be there?”
“My ex?”
He continued to stare.
“I’m sure he will.”
Bartholomew’s stare was rigid, the coldness deep in his eyes. “Will you speak?”
“It’d be awkward if we didn’t.”
“Then you’re still on good terms.”
“I wouldn’t say that…given that we haven’t spoken since the day I left. He’s probably remarried by now.”
Bartholomew looked away, staring out across the terrace again. “You must be nervous.”
“I don’t get nervous. At least, not about stuff like that.”
“Then what does make you nervous?”
I stared at the side of his face, feeling the quickening of my heart just from admiring his handsomeness. “Can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”
The second we left the terrace and entered the bedroom, he was on me. He gripped me from behind, tugged me hard into his chest, and then sealed his lips over my neck like he had fangs to sink into my flesh. His tongue tasted me, his fingers dug into my soft stomach, and he ground his hard-on against the small of my back.
Like he’d wanted me all his life but had never had the chance to make me his, he yanked my shirt over my head then tugged off my bra, nearly ripping the elastic because he was so harsh. The rest of my clothes fell. His did too.
And then I was on my back on the bed, the terrace doors still wide open, the city lights stretching across us. He got on top of me, folded me beneath him, and then crushed his mouth to mine as he took me in a single thrust.
I gave a gasp as I dug my nails into his back.
His face rested against my cheek as he fucked me, his warm breaths falling against my skin. His moans were loud in my ear. His dick somehow felt bigger and harder. He took me like a prize after a conquered land. Fucked me like a whore but made me feel like a queen.
In record time, I reached my first climax, the pleasure so long and potent that I felt several shivers up my spine. It was so good, and I didn’t feel the least bit rushed because this man had proven he could handle watching me come without blowing his load.
He positioned himself over me, his strong arms hooking my knees back so he could pound into my pussy and rock the headboard. His eyes were locked on mine, seeing the residual heat from the climax he’d just given me. “Fuck, sweetheart…”
It was the first time I slept beside him.
Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night when I rolled over, and he would be there. And sometimes he wouldn’t. When the morning sunlight came through the terrace doors, he was beside me.
Dead asleep, the sheets at his waist, turned over on his stomach, with his hands underneath the pillow. His back was exposed, tight and muscular. His chest rose and fell slowly as he slept on.
I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his shoulder before I got out of bed and showered. He had a hallway that led to his master bathroom, far away from where he slept so I wouldn’t wake him up. I spent the next hour and a half doing my hair and makeup, getting ready to see people I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years.