Page 114 of Lorenzo

But she is stunning and tall and Italian, like Lorenzo.

And I’m diminutive with red hair and freckles and from Boston.

Right now, the difference between us in height and all kinds of ways bothers me more than I care to admit.

Lorenzo notices my discomfort immediately.

“Cara mia,” he says, taking two flutes of the sparkler and handing one to me as we move out of earshot of the staff.

“You mustn’t worry. You must not be jealous.”

His voice is low and intimate against my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine.

I smile because he is right, of course.

Then, in a low whisper, he teases me. Telling me I should take advantage of this sultry weather to unlace my buttoned-up top and also my prudish, all too proper Bostonian attitudes.

“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already suspect.

“I mean,” he says with a wicked glint in his eyes, “You should unbutton that high-necked shirt a bit. Maybe even take that gold barrette out of your hair and let it free.”

I protest softly. But he just smirks and shakes his head.

As we pass a large mirror, I catch my reflection and wonder if he is right. Since we’ve been married, I kept my Bostonian discipline in the way I dress.

My long auburn hair always up, often tightly braided. And only comes down when Lorenzo performs his favorite nightly ritual of freeing my hair from its tight gold barrette.

The bellman opens the double doors to our suite with a dramatic flourish.

I step inside and gasp. “Oh my God, Lorenzo, it’s beautiful.”

The space is breathtaking—elegant, airy. Filled with luxurious details that speak of old-world Italian charm blended with modern comfort.

Lorenzo smirks slips a generous tip to the porter. Finally, we are blissfully alone.

I wander through the hallway, the large and airy bathroom, and then into the bedroom. Here, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the thrashing turquoise sea.

“Oh my God,” I say again, turning to him. “The bed is big enough for an orgy.”

“Don’t give me ideas,” Lorenzo replies, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me onto the massive bed with him.

He moves his powerful body onto mine and immediately starts giving me delicate, juicy kisses. They start at my ear, trace the lines of my jaw, and slide down my neck.

It feels wonderful to be ravished like this, especially in the suite of a chic Italian luxury hotel that must cost thousands of dollars a night.

Of course, our penthouse at The Circle Hotel in Manhattan is chic and luxurious too.

Yet it’s different here.

Maybe because for the first time in months, I have Lorenzo all to myself. In Manhattan, he serves as consigliere to his brother Dante, the head of the Ricci Mafia ruling the city.

“What do you want to play tonight, wife?” he asks in that husky voice.

He unbuttons my blouse in his hurried, impatient way.

When the buttons prove too slow for him, he yanks the whole thing off.

“Lorenzo!” I say in a half-hearted protest.