Though I remind her my name is now Slayer, she insists on calling me Sam. And each time she does, the sound of her dulcet Italian accent caressing my name causes a stirring in my pants.
It’s the excitement of a 17-year-old boy having an encounter with a genuine Italian princess who at first refused to acknowledge his existence.
Valentina’s features have softened over the years, but each time I look at her, I’m struck by her dark beauty. And now, as she wiggles her chair closer to me, I delight in her proximity.
I can see her opportunism clearly, of course. But the way she listens to me speak, her warm brown eyes taking it all in, is an incredible ego boost.
European women tend to be great in this way, but Valentina,she’s the queen of them all. Bix has me off balance, and it’s fun to feel I have a bit of the upper hand now.
Valentina and I reminisce about the days when we sat around Mrs. Tyson’s dinner table, me as Rafe’s guest, and her there with his sister, Sue.
“How is Rafe these days?” she asks, her fingers brushing my wrist.
“He’s landing this afternoon. Commercial flight. Had to stay in New York an extra day.”
“Why?”
I take a deep breath. “His mother’s sick.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, putting her elegant hand on my thigh.
I nod, gaze drifting automatically to Bix.
She’s watching us, though pretending not to. The Champagne glass in her hand is empty again. Her cheeks are flushed. Though from the sun or the alcohol, I can’t tell.
“Your new girlfriend is charming,” Valentina says, following my gaze. “But she’s not your usual type.”
I study her a moment, unable to resist the bold question. “What do you know of my type? You made it clear I wasn’t yours.”
She laughs, the sound musical and performative.
“We were children. You couldn’t expect an Italian contessa to take an American boy seriously. But now here you are,” she says, her voice dropping lower, her fingers moving up my inner thigh, “with the world at your feet.”
A server refills our glasses. Across the table, Bix stands abruptly.
She mumbles something to Sterling, who’s deep in conversation with an industry executive who’s stopped by the table. He barely acknowledges her as she moves away, her steps slightly unsteady.
Under the crisp white tablecloth, Valentina’s skillful fingers make contact with my cock. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me, as if making sure her touch is welcome.
“You have the world at your feet,” she repeats, her voice a silken whisper.
I swallow hard, but my thoughts are on Bix. Though I find acertain satisfaction in her jealousy of Valentina, I sense I might have taken it too far.
I remove Valentina’s hand from my crotch.
She offers a you-don't-know-what-you're-missing look and smiles before turning away.
The beat shifts to something with more bass, a rhythm designed to pull people to the dance floor. I turn to see Bix saying something to the DJ that makes him grin.
She’s different suddenly—lighter, more animated than she’s been all afternoon. He leans down, speaking into her ear over the music. Whatever he says makes her laugh.
Something hot and unwelcome twists in my gut.
This is business, I remind myself. The contract, the album, the image Sterling wants to project. That’s all this is.
The DJ extends his hand to Bix, helping her step onto a nearby table.
The crowd notices, cheers rising. She stands uncertainly for a moment, then the music catches her, and she begins to move.
