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I don’t give a shit.
I’m cursed now because there’s only one man I want, and he just left me fucked and forever, so I don’t care how I’m supposed to lie and impress Luca Mercier. I don’t. I tell him the truth.
“Yes, you can help me,” I tell him. “You can call Cupid and tell him to go fuck an arrow. I never want to feel love like this again.”
The smile on Luca’s handsome face could convince you to try to breathe underwater. I bet drowning doesn’t burn if he’s the one taking you down.
Luca’s into spreader bars, dildos, thigh slings, gags, paddles, ropes, and floggers. When he ordered a Deluxe Stockade Padded Frame with a Sex Machine attached, which is designed for training submissives, like restraining them on all fours while a machine thrusts a dildo into them? When he ordered that last year and over a dozen leather harnesses, six for women and eight for men last month from Delta’s?
Luca Mercier became a legend in my mind.
I’ve met plenty of Doms at our store, but Luca makes them all look like tax collectors wearing pocket protectors. Like a Kinky God, Luca rules sex and power and control; he commands your darkest desires.
That’s why I’ve never seen him smile, but he does now.
He’s so gentle, answering me, “I understand. I hated Cupid for years, too.”
“He’s a little asshole.”
I wipe my tears, sniffing back the snot that threatens again, and Luca’s so cultured. He reaches into his jacket and hands me a fresh, black handkerchief with anMmonogrammed in gold.
Who the fuck still carries silk handkerchiefs?
Luca Mercier, that’s who.
I bet this doubles as a blindfold for his sub.
“Thank you,” I have to accept it, or I’ll look like I have the manners of a hellcat.
His hand barely caresses my arm where Beau’s jersey sleeve meets my bare flesh. Luca’s not coming on to me; he’s trying to comfort me.
“I know how love can hurt. How it can plunge you into darkness,” he shares. “But do you know what I’ve also learned from our little asshole, Cupid?”
I shake my head, admitting my ignorance, willing to listen to Luca Mercier read aloud IKEA instructions in that accent while he explains, “I’ve learned this year that love is the sunrise. We all suffer dark nights, and now you’re in yours, but you must trust that love will return to you.”
End of story.
No, wait…
It’s not.
I start sobbing again.
And when the elevator dings, threatening to open, Luca spanks a button on the brass panel, preventing the entire hotel lobby from witnessing my mortification.
“Please,” he urges, “it will be okay. I promise.”
It’s so easy to let him wrap his arms around me. They’re so muscular and heavy like Beau’s; it comforts me, making me cry in his embrace even more.
Sniffing into his brick wall of a chest, I warn, “I’m gonna get snot on your fancy suit.”
“Please do,” he chuckles, giving me a gentle squeeze. “My daughter does it all the time. Let me call a car for you. My treat. I insist.”
I don’t say no to Luca.
No one does.
I let him usher me out of the elevator, and he’s so big, so protective, too, that he shields me from gawking eyes. But who am I kidding? They’re gawking at him, not me, some crazy, crying woman in an Atlanta Falcons jersey.
