“Yes,” she murmured. “I gotta have you.”
Those five little words came flying out of her mouth with such conviction, she’d surprised herself.
“Ti farò contorcere dal piacere e urlare il mio nome quando verrai,” he murmured.I’ll make you writhe with pleasure and scream my name when you come.
“Non so il tuo nome,” she replied in Italian.I don’t know your name.
His smile touched his eyes.
“Ma apprezzo la frase. Non molto originale, ma non mi lamenterò se mi farai godere per bene,” she continued.But I appreciate the line. Not very original, but I won't complain if you sex me up good.
He chuffed out a laugh sending a jolt of energy whizzing through her. He was strikingly beautiful with a killer body.
Go with it. You’ll never see him again.
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
“No questions,” she replied.
“Let’s get a room.”
She nodded. To her surprise, he pulled his phone from his pocket, made a call. When he pressed it to his ear, she murmured, “The front desk is right there.”
“This is better,” he replied. Into the phone, he said, “Hey, sorry for the late call.”
She glanced at her watch. It was after eleven.
“I’m at your hotel?—”
He’s talking to the owner, Rebel Dillinger.
“And I need a room for one night.” He listened, his gaze cemented on hers. “Thanks, yeah, I’m doing okay.” More listening, then he smiled. “I am taking it easy, that’s why I’m looking to stay here.” More listening, then, “I plead the fifth.” He laughed and she got another delicious adrenaline hit. “No, I won’t rip my stitches, but thanksMom.” While he waited, he caressed her cheek with the back of his finger.
She quivered with anticipation as his long finger moved slowly down her cheek, her neck, then dipping into the hollow of her throat. A moan ripped from her throat as he pressed his mouth to her cheek and kissed her.
“Thanks, Rebel. Appreciate it. No, you don’t have to comp me.” After thanking him again, he hung up.
A shadow fell over his light brown eyes, a devilish smile lifted his sexy lips. “Play time.” He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her flush against him. “I’m going to eat you. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have a condom. Do you want me to buy a box?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
At the front desk, he said to the clerk, “Checking in.”
“Welcome. Can I get your name, please?”
He pulled his driver’s license and set it on the counter.
As the clerk checked him in, she said, “Welcome, Mr. Santini. I see Mr. Dillinger is in the process of completing the reservation for you. You must be one of our VIPs.”
Santini. It can’t be the same Santini. There’s no way.
She peeked up at him. His hair was longer, he now had a beard and mustache, but how did she not recognize him as one of the five men from the yacht photo?
Please don’t be the Mr. Santini from the villa.
