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“When did your fascination with Coppola begin?” I asked, seeking safe ground.
“I don’t know when it happened, exactly, but it might’ve started with the first time I saw The Outsiders.”
“The movie with Matt Dillon?”
She bobbed her head. “Yep. Here’s the thing, it was on late-night television, I was up studying for exams, and I put it on for background noise. But slowly I started to catch snippets of the movie, and before I knew it, I was totally engrossed and bawling my head off by the end. Something about that movie just touched my soul.” She risked a short laugh. “I know that sounds corny, but the movie is pure genius, and that, of course, sparked an interest in who directed the film, and I found Coppola. The rest just seemed to flow into a genuine obsession that I can’t explain, but it’s my guilty pleasure.”
It was the first real bit of personal information Katherine had willingly shared all week, and I was eager for more, even if I wanted to be the one who created that megawatt smile instead of an old filmmaker she’d never met.
Our food arrived—linguine alla vongole for me and bumbola ai broccoli e salsiccia for Katherine—and we enjoyed the culinary perfection of old-world Italian cooking.
“Reminds me of my great-grandmother’s linguine,” I said with a bit of nostalgia. “Nonna was a feisty thing, but, damn, she could whip up a mean table.”
“That’s the one who lived in Italy, right?”
I nodded. “My father’s grandmother Francesca Donato. She died when I was ten, but she made sure to teach her daughters how to make fresh pasta the Italian way.”
“Your nonna would’ve loved Greta,” Katherine quipped with a knowing grin.
Our cook, Greta, ruled the Donato kitchens with an iron fist. She was the female version of my father. She believed in old-school traditions and would skin alive anyone who dared to take shortcuts when it came to what landed on the Donato table.
“That she would,” I agreed. The stout Italian woman had starch flowing through her veins, but she could make your mouth orgasm with her culinary skills. If Dante kept eating Greta’s pasta the way he did, he’d end up fat as a summer tick. Actually, I’d like to see that—the asshole could use something to take him down a peg. I rubbed my belly, suffering my own indulgence. Time to walk off some of this dinner, but first, “Dessert?” I asked.
“God, no.” She shook her head and groaned. “I can’t fit anything else in my stomach.”
“Me, either.” I signaled for the check, paid, and we made our way into the brisk night air. Fog had begun to settle. The pale, misty blanket cloaked the city streets with an eerie elegance, but it chilled to the bone quickly. We managed a few blocks before we hurried back to the awaiting town car, our noses tingling with the cold.
“What now?” she asked, curious as she rubbed her hands together to warm them. “We could see a movie... We could probably even find a theater showing Coppola films.”
I laughed at her not-so-subtle hint. “As much as I would love sitting in a darkened theater with you, I have different plans.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“It’s a surprise. I recall that you used to enjoy surprises.”
“I was younger then,” she reminded me, her expression wary.
“True. I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
My next move was a gamble. It could blow up in my face or put her in my bed. What I was about to expose Katherine to was above and beyond anything she could possibly imagine.
I didn’t have the option of taking the safe route. It was go big or go home.
We returned to our hotel, and as directed, a new selection of outfits awaited Katherine.
Only this time instead of jeweled necklaces for accessories, there were ornate masquerade-style masks.
“What the hell... Where are we going?” Katherine asked, her gaze roaming the beautiful masks and their accompanying corsets of black, red and purple lace before turning to me for answers, balking openly. “I’m not wearing any of those anywhere in public.”
I closed the distance between us with strong, purposeful steps until I was close enough to draw her to me. She melted in my arms even as her gaze remained cautious. I brushed my lips across hers as I murmured, “I can promise you...where we are going is very, very private.” I released her reluctantly, her lips still dewy from my kiss. “Time to get dressed. We don’t want to be late.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Katherine
MY HEART HAMMERED in my chest. The lingerie on the bed beckoned with wicked fingers, promising a night that would live in my dreams forever—but was I willing to allow such a memory to exist?
“No sex?” I repeated the question, my throat suddenly dry. “If I wear this...will you still stick to our agreement?”
“Darling, I’ve been good so far,” he reminded me, and I blushed. Yes, I am the one who’s having trouble remembering our deal. In hindsight, I should’ve forbidden all kissing when we struck our deal. Too late now.
“I will not fuck you until you beg for it,” he returned, but his blue eyes glittered with a secret that I didn’t trust and desperately needed to know. Still, I hesitated, afraid that he was going to find a way to put me on my back, in spite of our deal. Mostly afraid because I wanted him to. The tension coiling in my body was enough to crush a Smart car. I craved his touch, craved the feeling of him inside me, pushing me toward that brink of disaster, but I was trying to remain strong. As long as he kept his promise...I could get through this.
“I don’t beg,” I answered, my fingers trailing across the lacy texture of the black corset, the long garter straps dangling in wait. The accompanying mask was a thing of art. I perused the selections, each more beautiful than the last, but my eye was drawn to the black. I wanted to slip it over my face, to lose myself in the illusion of being someone else, if only for the night. I caught the voracious look in Luca’s eyes as I teased my fingers across the fabric of my favorite corset. If anyone would beg, it would be Luca. “And what are you wearing if I’m to wear this ridiculous getup?”
“Nothing quite as beautiful.”
The smart part of my brain warned that I should refuse, that wherever Luca planned to take me was a bad idea, but the other part of my brain couldn’t quite resist the temptation of finding out.
Curiosity would ruin me; mystery was my Pied Piper.
“Which one should I wear?” I asked coyly, enjoying the subtle bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “Do you have a preference?”
“The black,” he answered, his voice rough. “The same one that you can’t keep your hands from.”
“You always did have excellent taste,” I murmured, slowly plucking the lingerie from the bed and clutching it to my chest as I headed to the bathroom. “I guess you’d better get changed, then,” I said before closing the door behind me.
Was I doing this? Even though I knew it was a bad idea? That I would likely end up with Luca’s cock inside me? I shivered, trying not to buckle at the sheer pleasure of that thought. How could I miss him so much and yet hate him, too?
You don’t hate Luca, a voice whispered. You’re still in love with him.
Stunned, I rejected the silver-tongued devil in my head and carefully removed the exquisite designer dress to change into the equally gorgeous lingerie. The steel-boned corset accentuated my waist, flaring my hips, pushing my breasts up like an offering, my nipples barely covered. In fact, the dusky rose of my areolae flirted with the edge of the lace trim purposefully. One slip and my nipples would pop free, hard and pearled for Luca’s hungry mouth. I caught my breath, my fingers shaking as I snapped the sheer garters into place. I pulled out the pins holding my hair in place. Waves tumbled to my shoulders, and I fitted the mask to my face. My lips, red as sin, pouted and promised ruin. This was insane. I was in dangerous territory, but the secret thrill at my image in the mirror was far more powe
rful than any voice of reason.
Drawing a deep breath, I opened the door and found Luca waiting. He’d changed into sleek, soft leather pants that on anyone else would’ve looked corny and trying too hard, but on Luca they looked absolutely sinful.
His shirt, casually sexy, was slightly open, hinting at the hard, muscled chest hiding beneath. My own breath hitched in my chest as warmth flooded my pelvis. If he slipped a finger inside me, he’d find me wet and ready.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Luca muttered, almost as if he were angry, but I knew it was simply raw, primal lust that roughened his tone. I knew without needing to touch that he was rock hard. I could practically feel the sexual pulse between us like a desperate heartbeat. His searing gaze left scorch marks on my soul. “Shall we?”
He produced a long, elegant trench coat for me, slipping it over my shoulders before clasping my hand in his and leading me from the room to the car.
My gaze kept drifting to Luca in question. The mystery of our destination was more than I could stand, but I savored the torture.
We pulled into a dark alley and exited the car. I remained close to Luca, the area looking sketchy as hell. He knocked on a door that I hadn’t even realized was there, and a small panel opened as two eyes peered out. “Password” was all the voice said.
“Bacchanal,” Luca answered calmly, and the peephole shut with a rusty click as the door opened, revealing a hulking man with a bulbous nose and a mean-eyed squint, but he stepped aside so we could pass.
We traveled a long hallway until we turned a corner, revealing the most incredible view I’d ever seen—a private world of tits and ass, throbbing music and open sexual acts happening in full view of anyone who cared to watch.
“What is this place?” I asked in shock, my gaze riveted to this buffet of sensuality.
“Welcome to Malvagio, my love,” he answered with a broad grin. “Where anything goes as long as it’s consensual.”
