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And jerked off again, in the shower, thinking about the hot water and my expensive soap dripping off of Sofia Ferretti’s luscious tits.
Okay, fine, I’d told myself, waking up the next morning. I’d just found the rare night—theonlynight—in which there hadn’t been a single woman out who was my type. Never mind that my type is between eighteen and thirty and breathing—I just hadn’t found anyone to pique my interest.
Nothing wrong with that. Everyone has an off night.
But I didn’t bring anyone home that next night, either.
This morning makes almost a week running that I’ve pleasured myself every single day, multiple times most days, unable to find a woman that makes me want to turn on my trademark charm and sweep her into my bed. Instead I’ve come home and fantasized about all of the filthy, dirty,insanelypleasurable things that I want to do to Sofia and her prized innocence. How I want to rip it away from her like that stupidly short black dress, and make her beg for me until she’s breathless with it. How I want to teach her how it feels to have every inch of her body touched and kissed and stroked, how it feels to come over and over again until I lose all control and cover her in my cum, marking her as mine once and for all--
And just like that, I’m rock-hard in the back of the car, a mile away from the church where I’m getting married.
At this rate, it’s going to be impossible for me not to wind up erect during the ceremony just from the sight of her.
I can’t understand it. A week ago, I would have laughed until I pissed myself at the idea that there could be a woman anywhere, in the entire world, that could make me celibate. That could keep me from fucking anyone and everyone that I please. And yet, since I carried Sofia out of that hotel room, I haven’t seen a single woman that can make me forget about her.
Not a single one that makes me want anyone else.
I want Sofia. I want her in every single way that a man can want a woman, and apparently I want her so desperately that I can’t get a hard-on for anyone else. Part of the reason I haven’t brought anyone home is on account of the fact that I couldn’t bear the humiliation if I couldn’t get it up for another woman.
I shouldwantto fuck someone else. I should want to take another woman to bed and fuck her so soundly that Sofia would hear the moans all the way down the hall, and realize the utter foolishness of holding out on me. I should bend another woman over in front of Sofia’s goddamn door and let her hear the sound of me slamming balls deep into literallyanyonethat isn’t her.
But I haven’t, and at this point, I’m starting to think that I won’t.
So what the fuck are you going to do? Stay celibate forever?Sofia and I are at a stand-off, and once I banish her to her own apartment, I can’t imagine the situation is going to improve. Maybe having her out of sight will successfully get her out of my mind—but I’m not sure that I can bet on that anymore.
I’m not sure of anything. And I could strangle her for shattering my peace of mind so thoroughly.
I’m going to see her in less than twenty minutes, and I couldn’t be less ready.
There’s only a few people at the rehearsal—Don Rossi and his wife Giulia, Franco and Caterina, and of course Father Donahue. The rehearsal dinner will be a different matter altogether, with several of the higher-ranking members of the family there.
I walk down the aisle towards the altar, feeling as if my tie is choking me. I want out of here more than I want to breathe—I want to flee this church, get on the first plane to Amsterdam, and lose myself in the filthiest fucking sex imaginable. Maybe crossing an ocean would mean enough space between Sofia and I that I could stop thinking about her.
Probably not.
What the fuck does she want?I think as I stand at the altar with Franco next to me, Don Rossi and his wife sitting in the first pew, and Caterina striding down the aisle to go meet Sofia and bring her in.Does she want love? Fidelity? Is this just a way of punishing me for forcing her into this?
Surely she doesn’t want me to be a real husband to her—faithful, loving, all of that bullshit. Even if I were capable of it, I don’t know what reason she would have for wanting that. In her eyes, I’m just the man she’s being forced to marry. Not the man who rescued her, the man who saved her from being sold or worse—just her jailer. Her unwanted husband.
But I’ve felt, in those moments that we were alone together, that a part of her wants me physically. I felt it in the brief moment that she gave into my kiss, in the way she reacts every time we fight, in the way I see her skin flush and her chest heave. She’s fighting desire, too.
So why not just give in?
I’ve got to stop thinking about it, or I’m never going to get through tonight.
The doors open, and the music starts.Canon in D, the traditional wedding music, and I stand up a little straighter. “Here comes the bride,” Franco says with a laugh, nudging me playfully. “Shame you won’t be the first, but damn if you weren’t lucky enough to get a hot piece of ass.”
I feel myself tense, and for the first time, I find myself wanting to punch my best friend.A good right hook to the jaw ought to teach him not to talk about my fiancée that way,I think, gritting my teeth.
But we’ve been talking that way about women all our lives. For fuck’s sake, he gave me the gritty details of the blowjob Caterina gave him in the back of the limo after he put the ring on her finger, right down to how he was sure she’d done it before, because she took it all the way down her throat, and knew to swallow. I should have just elbowed him back, and made a comment about what, exactly, I plan to do to that ass tomorrow night.
Instead, I want to punch him for even mentioning that he’s looked at Sofia.
As the music fills the room, Caterina comes through the doors, walking slowly down the aisle just as she will tomorrow. I glance sideways at Franco, and see that his eyes are locked on his own fiancée, his face so full of lust that I’m surprised he hasn’t managed to fuck her already. “I can’t wait to plow that virgin field,” he says longingly under his breath, his eyes greedily undressing her as she walks towards us. “The Don’s daughter. My god, Luca, you’re a good fucking friend.”
“You earned it,” I tell him quietly. And I mean it. He’s earned everything he’s gotten and more over the years, standing steadfastly by my side through everything we’ve done. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.
But right now, watching him eye-fuck his future bride, knowing that he’s going to get to take her to bed on their wedding night, I’ve never been so jealous.
