“Are there cameras in my bedroom?” Chiara asks when we reach her door.
“I don’t know for certain,” I say honestly. “But I would assume so.”
“That fucker,” she growls. “Bathroom?”
Again, I shrug. “No idea, but less likely. I expect even Angelo draws the line at watching you take a shit.”
Chiara laughs so hard she almost chokes. After a few seconds, I join her. The tension in my body fades, but my erection doesn’t wilt. Not at all.
We stumble into Chiara’s bedroom. There’s a small lamp glowing on the nightstand, but the bathroom is dark. She leads me in there and turns on the lights around the vanity mirror so we can see each other, but it’s not blinding.
“Luka,” she says, stepping into my arms and resting her cheek on my shoulder while I pull her tightly against my chest. “Winding up Angelo is my new life’s mission, but this—” She looks up at me, her pretty blue eyes serious for once. “This is separate from that.”
I stare down at her. With her hair all mussed and her cheeks still pink, she looks gorgeous and effortlessly sexy.
Chiara is nothing like the fake, vain women I work with. They wouldn’t be seen dead without makeup and use industrial-strength filters to ensure they never look anything less than perfect.
Chiara’s skin is smooth and unblemished, but there’s a dusting of freckles across her nose, and her eyebrows are natural, not painted on with a Sharpie. From what I’ve seen of her, she rarely styles her hair, and I love how she’s happy to hang out in loose sweats and a stained tee.
I give her my best, most seductive smile. The smile I use for my fans.
But to my surprise, she doesn’t fall for my bullshit. Instead, she frowns.
“Luka, I want you,” she tells me. “I want you because you’re kind and a fucking amazing person, not because it will piss Angelo off.”
26
Chiara
Luka’s mask drops, and the real man looks down at me. Not the charming playboy or the guarded brother of a mafia prince. Something tells me that despite his looks and sexy confidence, there’s a damaged little boy beneath the flirtatious banter.
“You think I’m fucking amazing?” He repeats my words with a faint smirk.
“You know I do, you dork. Now make me come before I explode!”
He doesn’t need telling twice. This time, when he places me on the bathroom counter, I don’t bother looking for cameras. If there are cameras in here, well, I hope Angelo gets his money’s worth from what’s about to happen.
Luka parts my thighs and presses his face into my pussy, not caring that I’m wearing a pair of plain white panties.
“Fuck, you smell good, peaches,” he mumbles.
“Peaches?” I huff out a laugh. So far, his nicknames for me have run the gamut of cutie, sexy girl, and baby. Anyone would think he couldn’t remember my fucking name. But I’mopting not to be that uncharitable. This guy has probably fucked hundreds of women. All of them better looking than me.
Right now, he’s here with me, and I need to come.
“Peaches suits you. You’re sweet, juicy, and make my mouth water.”
“You’re so full of shit,” I giggle before my amusement quickly turns into a moan when he pulls my panties to one side and licks me.
“So sweet,” he groans, reaching down to squeeze his shaft. I try moving, desperate for more stimulation to push me over the edge, but he tears my panties off and pins my thighs down.
“Let me look at you.”
The light isn’t great, but he seems to like what he sees. Thank fuck I landscaped this morning, or it would be a jungle down there. Thank heavens for spa days too, where hirsute is unacceptable.
“Ten out of ten, would recommend?” I joke, not having been this exposed in, like, forever. The last time I got laid, I insisted the lights were off so I could pretend the dude was Brad Pitt in his younger days.
“Fucking perfect.” He dives in and eats me like a starving man let loose on a buffet of gourmet food. It’s too much, and I come embarrassingly fast and with a great deal of noise. All thoughts of Angelo are long gone.
