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I guided his body back into mine. He didn't protest as I sank down on him, letting him fill me in places I didn't know I was empty. He was burning hot inside of me in the nicest way. I felt like I'd spontaneously combust in about ten seconds. I began to move up and down, grinding against him and rocking a little. His gigantic hands were on my hips, pulling me close for each downward thrust.
In no time at all, it was hard to breathe. The force of my climax hit me like a bus that was running behind schedule. I cried out and felt him begin to shoot inside of me. He crushed my body close to his as I fell apart. He said words to me that were meaningless. I didn't know if they were Italian or English. My ears didn't work.
When I opened my eyes, he was gazing tenderly at my face. He dropped a small kiss on my nose. "Hello."
"Hi," I said. "Did you see the bus that hit me? We should pay attention to the license number."
"Sorry, cara," he said, kissing my cheek. "I'm afraid I was hit by the same bus." He licked my neck, making my blood run hot. I could go for another round. He moved so that my head was cradled against his chest. I listened to the rapid pace of his heart, which hadn't slowed down after our lovemaking. I trailed one hand over his hip and felt the gratifying increase of pace.
"You want to kill me," he groaned, his hand going to my hip. "You're going to drain me dry."
"I want to," I said, biting his shoulder. He rolled so that I was beneath him and my legs were wrapped around his narrow hips.
"I'll let you try." With that, he slid back inside of me. His tongue invaded me with the same rhythm as the rest of his body. Beneath him, I was just along for the ride. I could hear the headboard thudding against the wall in a steady rhythm. My mouth was thoroughly explored by his tongue. And as he sped up, I bucked my hips upward in a way that made his liquid heat shoot inside of me.
He collapsed on top of my body. He was not small or light, but I was being crushed into the mattress in a way that I liked. I stroked his sweaty back.
"What are you doing to me?" Massimo asked, his face buried in my shoulder and breast.
"Whatever it is, you're doing it to me twice over," I tossed back. I could hear his soft laughter and stroked the silky strands of his hair. I kissed the top of his head.
My eyes were drifting shut. I couldn't keep them open anymore.
When I woke up, the bed was empty. No note, nothing at all indicated that he'd been there besides the stickiness and soreness between my thighs. I'd let wildfire passion carry me away for a night.
I had a terrible sick feeling in my stomach. My instincts were wrong last night. He just wanted to hit it and quit it. I was just a piece of ass to him. At least he had the decency to let me wake up in this bed, alone on stained sheets, feeling the delicious soreness from last night.
I was freezing to death in his hotel room which still smelled like the passion we shared. I had to get out of here. I showered because I didn't want to smell him on my body. Then I put on yesterday's dress and tossed my bra into my purse. I really needed to go back to my place. My world made a lot more sense when Massimo wasn't in it.
Reveal
Two and a half months later, I was still working out my frustrations on an elliptical in a local gym. I had a card that gave me a 15% discount on membership, which I was using fully. I got bored with my music, so I looked at the television screen.
"Prince Pietro arrives in Australia," the chevron at the bottom said. I didn't pay much attention to royalty, normally, but there was nothing else to look at in this room. When I took a slightly closer look at the man shaking hands with Prime Minister Turnbull, my heart stopped.
Massimo was on the screen. As I kept watching, it was clear he wasn't part of the entourage. He was the main attraction.
He'd lied to me.
I was in the middle of a busy gym. I couldn't burst into tears. So I just kept exercising like I hadn't realized that I'd been played.
At least I knew now why he hadn't texted me back. He was a little busy doing high-flying deals with heads of state. Someone like me had no business even talking to a prince. I'd just gotten lucky enough to spend some time with him.
I wiped a tear from the corner of my left eye. I'd promised to put thoughts of Massimo on a dusty shelf. I was breaking a promise to myself by watching him waving at people on TV.
Jumping off of the machine and out the door, I went to cheer myself up by going to a café and getting a spicy Mexican-influenced scone. It came out in a few minutes and I ate it quickly. It was so hot that I didn’t know if my tears were from sadness or capsaicin overload.
I went up to the register and asked my server, "Could I please pay my bill?" I needed to get out of here before I totally lost it.
"Yeah, of course," she said, a huge smile on her face. "Card?"
"Yes."
She gave me the machine. I jammed it in, chip-first, and then a receipt printed out. I signed it and she gave me a customer copy.
"Are you from Ireland?" I asked. Her accent was beautifully lyrical.
"No," she said. "I'm from Newcastle. But I've heard Irish a lot...some people think I'm Scottish."
