Mia Dolce Page 7

  “I did,” she admitted, and decided to give him more than a trite answer. “But I did that instinctively—and to a degree against my better judgment. It seems my instinct served me well here with you. I wanted you for different reasons and came to want you minute after minute, for more and better reasons than the previous ones.”

  The answer erased the lines of dismay from his countenance. “As I thought. But I had to hear you say it.”

  She flowed closer to him. “What else would make you smile this morning, my darling? What else would you ask?”

  Wickedness overcame his starkly roman features. “Eat your breakfast. Then come with me. I promised you the cellars and I will show them to you before I leave to see the family lawyer.”

  She agreed she too was in a hurry to see the cellars. So she finished her cappuccino and pastry and would have doffed the robe but he told her to keep it on. Securing the sash again, she walked with him through the house, down a circular staircase to the dim, cool cellar.

  The wine cellar consisted of row on row of dust-covered bottles of the estate-bottled Sangiovesies and Chiantis of the House of Avanti. Dating back to the earliest bottle in 1746, the numbers of bottles must have totaled thousands.

  “We sell a table version of the lesser quality,” Sergio told her as they trailed up and down the rows, “and some we sell as cooking wine. That product alone brings us in enough profit to make the residents of the whole valley prosperous.”

  “And the olives and the gourmet business? How do they do?”

  “Extremely well. The olives and the oil have made us the leading purveyors in Europe. In America, we are second in sales. But the gourmet business does well here and I need a good way to promote that in the States. I think I have found the way but I must secure the deal.” Sergio stopped and faced her, his expression grim. “The gourmet ad campaign is the reason I must see my lawyer this morning. I have new questions there and I must be careful to do this correctly.”

  “Then you must go and do that because your lover needs you back here. And quickly too lest she pine away.”

  “Mmmm.” He thrust his hands inside the robe. One cupped a breast and the other threaded into the long hair of her pussy. “Shall I see how well she pines for me?”

  “Yes, do,” Reggie told him.

  And he sent his talented fingers up into her cunt. “You have more cream than a goddess.”

  “Only for you, darling,” she told him with a sigh as he stroked her to a luscious boil, leaving her primed for one of his hearty fucks.

  “Come then, the room I want you to see and enjoy.” He turned and led her along a passageway to another huge door, this one very rough-hewn, ancient and creaking as it opened.

  Inside, the wide room was even dimmer, cooler than the wine cellar. Clean, it was a stark place. Against the side walls were various contraptions.

  First was a long wooden beam, round with the circumference of a small drum.

  “A battering ram,” Sergio informed her. “Twelfth century. From the city-state wars between Siena and Firenze.”

  “And this?” She pointed to a flat board angled at forty-five degrees from the floor with four sets of chains and facing the only window in the cellar.

  “That is a rack.”

  “Really?” Reggie ran her hands over the smooth wood. “Did your family use this on prisoners?”

  “Never. Never for torture. One of my ancestors brought it here from a nearby estate. He bought it for his wife. Only for pleasure.”

  Her jaw dropped—and she felt a thrill dart up her spine. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

  “You said you wanted chains.”

  “Amazing. Yes,” she turned to him, clapping her hands, “show me!”

  “Remove the robe,” he told her, his face taut with sexual heat. “This is done with the lover naked. But if you wish not to—”

  “Do it.” She shrugged out of the garment, committed to discover this new adventure. “Quickly.” She spread her arms out wide. “I trust you,” she said, and meant it.

  “Bene, my fondest wish.” He nodded once then took from his trousers pockets the set of Chinese balls and the ass plug. “Open your legs, bella. Let me insert these.”

  She took a wide stance and he sank before her, his mouth seeking out her clitoris and tickling her with his tongue. His fingers tangled in her pussy hair and he tugged her wider. “Christ, you are so giving. I could eat here all day but I must do this. He inserted the balls one by one, making her groan out loud at the cool, smooth orbs inside pressed against her walls. “Now we will bend you, darling.” And bend her he did so that her ass was up in the air. Rubbing the plug against her juicy lips, he delighted her with talented fingers as she gave down more cream to coat the little piece. Then kissing her back, he fondled her tiny hole and inserted the warm blunt plug. She stamped one foot in joyful protest but he massaged her asshole to ease her toward delight.

  Then he turned her up and around, his arms encircling her as she swooned with the power of the balls and plug. “Back up, bella. Sink back.” And he put her to the rack, chains looping loosely thorough the board at her arms and ankles.

  “I will be insane by the time you return, you realize,” she told him, angry at his loss, his ability to walk away and thrilled that the toys would prime her to madness for him.

  “I know. And I will conclude my business as soon as I can. You will welcome me, I do believe.”

  At his smile, she grinned at him and then barked, “Get the hell out of here now!”

  “First, we will cover you, my love.” He draped the robe over her from shoulders to toes. “Keep you warm and willing for me, si?”

  “You could hope, Signore Avanti.” She tried to rub her legs together and could not. The balls abraded her inside, the one dangling titillated her labia unmercifully while the plug in the back filled her up to raging excitement. “Good day to you, sir.”

  How long he stayed away she could not know. The hours, the minutes, the years, whatever it was drove her crazy with unfulfilled desire. This experience was the opposite of yesterday’s. Today, she merely yearned for an orgasm. She was so full but so loosely and so tantalizingly bound that she could wiggle, undulate and moan, but try as she might she could not pleasure herself to fulfillment. She could only stare out the little window and dream of an orgasm in Sergio’s arms. The result was that when she heard the massive door open again, she shouted at him, “Come now, damn you and get me out of this thing!”

  He appeared before her, his face contorted with despair. “My god, Regina, I will never do this again. I worried. Dio Mio, this is not the thing for you.” And on he went as he flung the robe away, unlocked the chains and unwound them from her wrists and ankles. “Let me caress you, warm you,” he repeated over and over, his voice full of self-recrimination as he massaged her arms and legs, her thighs and neck and back.

  “I am well,” she finally told him, her muscles unkinking, her mind full of his kindness and the pleasure they gave each other. “Remove the balls and plug.”

  He did at once. “You are so wet,” he marveled as he pocketed the items and embraced her to help her up.

  She stood on shaking legs. “I did want you but it was torture.”

  He ran his hands over her face, her breasts, her hips. “We will never do that again.” He cupped her face. “Some things are not for you, my sweet. This is one of them.”

  She smiled at him, her tension dissolving with the frustrated anger. “Come then and make love to me in your bed. I want to feel you in my arms in tenderness.”

  They hurried up to his bedroom where once more upon his bed he spread her out and touched her with deft care to dispel any lingering malaise. Then as before, they spent the next hour or more delighting each other in a harmony that had been borne in days and nights of ecstasy. She sank into his embrace when they had both enjoyed a groaning orgasm and knew that she would never find a man so inventive, so giving and so sweet. She had a few days to revel in
her relationship with him and she would not think beyond that. His life and work were here in Tuscany. She had a life to go home to in New York, a new cookbook to test recipes for and hopefully a cable television show to write and film. She would find gratification there. Alone, Reggie. Without Sergio.

  “You look very sad, bella.” He traced a fingertip down her nose. “What worries you?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she rolled away from him.

  “Regina—” he grabbed for her hand.

  But she darted for the bathroom and the shower.

  He was right behind her.

  In the spray, she closed her eyes, leaned her forehead on the marble wall and fought her heartache. He pressed his body to her back and wrapped his arms around her. She melted against him and felt his cock rise as hard as a rock as he shifted and sent it between her buttocks to slide along her slick lips.

  “You are amazing,” she sighed, and thrust her ass back to feel him better.

  “Only for you, mia dolce,” he ground out, and turned her in his arms. “Look at me,” he whispered, and nudged her legs open to receive his satisfying cock inside her hungry cunt.

  She gazed at him through a fresh wash of tears and sweet desire.

  “We will not end this, Regina.”

  She bit her trembling lips.

  And then he rammed himself so far into her that she gasped. “How could we?” he asked between pumps. “You belong to me.”

  “Oh yes,” she shouted, clutching at his shoulders as he sank into her with measured might. “And you to me.”

  “You are so right, my love,” he said, and he pulled out of her with a shock and then tugged her from the marble shower, wet and dripping, sliding along the slippery tiles to the bed where he caught her up and put her down amid the sheets. And there he sank his penis into her and laved her breasts with such slow talent that she lay exhausted on damp linens beside his heaving body.

  “Stay here,” he ordered her after they rested a few minutes. “I have a matter to attend to and then I will return to love you more.” He drew the blankets over her and kissed her on the mouth. “And we will continue this discussion.”

  She sank back against the pillows and fell asleep. How long she rested she wasn’t sure, but when she woke, the rays of the sun had shifted to afternoon. Rain pattered against the windowpanes and a chill swept the air. She went in search of another robe but found only a t-shirt and workout pants of Sergio’s. She pulled them on and padded down the hall to find him. She heard his voice and followed the sound. As she approached, she could tell he was on the phone—and he spoke English. His speech was laden with demands and a sense of urgency. She began to turn and leave him to his business when his words intrigued her. She stopped.

  “No, I will not permit you to offer her any less than that amount. I want her to have the best equipment money can buy. The filming studio in Brooklyn, I saw it last year. It is the best. You tell them to open a place in their calendar. I do not care what it costs.”

  Reggie heard Sergio punch a button. Suddenly the room was filled with another man speaking Italian.

  “Renaldo! English!” Sergio demanded. “Mr. Harmon does not understand Italian.”

  “Sergio,” the Italian-speaking Renaldo said, “you have not the money for this. You spend too much. Because the woman is in your bed, does not mean you must pay for her services this way!”

  Reggie froze. Were these the two lawyers Sergio had been talking to the last few mornings? And they discussed her?

  Sergio cursed at Renaldo in Italian, then swapped to English again. “I tell you now, man, you may be the Avanti family lawyer but you go too far. You will never speak of her this way again.”

  “I apologize, Sergio, but you have had many women and it is your way to give them a present after the affair. But you do not need to repay this one with a lavish production that she could have had for half the cost!”

  Reggie sank against the wall. A present? For their affair? “My god,” she murmured, a hand to her throat. What did Sergio want with her TV show?

  Sergio said something about Renaldo not realizing how many months he had struggled to find a way to advertise the gourmet business in America. “This TV show will be the best way. I told you before I left to meet her.”

  No. Reggie crossed her arms and shook her head. Sergio had planned to meet her? Had planned to buy the rights to produce a TV show with her as the star? And this was to advertise his business in the States? How could he do that? How could you do that and never tell me of your intention, Sergio?

  She drifted down the hall back to the bedroom in a haze of disbelief.

  All this passion and delight, all the sweetness was a planned affair to get to know me and control the production of the television show? To advertise his products?

  She shuddered at the insult. The despair.

  But she knew she had no one to blame but herself. For the first time in her life, she had followed her instincts. She had trusted him with her body but then given away her heart.

  She stripped his clothes from her body and pulled her own from hangers in the closet.

  She was going home to New York alone with whatever she could salvage of her self-respect. Then she planned to forget whatever she had done here and never be so bold, so instinctive again.

  Chapter Seven

  Reggie inched her way forward in the ticket line at the Florence train station. She was tired and hungry from her three-hour journey in the little lorrie. The driver had been more than kind and tolerant of the crazy woman who had flagged him down and then sat all afternoon fuming. More than angry at Sergio, Reggie was furious at herself. How could she have been so naïve to think a man of his sophistication would find her so appealing he’d want her in his bed for more than a few fucks?

  She ground her teeth and the woman in line in front of her glanced back to ask in broken English the state of her health.

  Reggie told her she was bad, very bad.

  The woman motioned for Reggie to step up in the line and take her place.

  “No, no, signora,” she replied, “Bene, bene. Grazie.”

  Christ, her Italian skills were miserable. Just like the rest of her people skills. If she ever thought of writing another cookbook, she’d better come here and live and learn the art of communication so that she never, ever naïvely trusted another Italian man.

  She looked around her, eyeing quite a few men in business suits running across the platform to catch any of the trains leaving the docks. Sleek and toned, dark and delicious, each man made her think of the way Sergio ran, walked, talked. Fucked. Oh god, she ran a hand through her hair. None could compare. Damn him.

  But then her eyes caught on one man. She squinted at him, far across the station. He was taller than others, standing over by the central clock and scanning the quays. She spun away from him. It was him. Damn him.

  “Signora, signora,” she said to the lady in front of her, “could I—would you mind if I—” and she made a gesture as if she would be ill. The woman stepped aside and said something to those in front. They parted for Reggie.

  “Grazie, grazie,” she told them as she got to the front of the line and gave the ticket master her credit card. “Roma, per favore. Uno. Si, si. Grazie.”

  The transaction was mercifully quick.

  Careful to look for Sergio out of the corner of her eye, she spun away from him toward the docks. Four trains lined up, huffing as they prepared to depart. Which one was hers? She looked up at the sign as the letters flipped to the newest destination. Roma. Dock 4. The time for it to depart was…oh my god, now! Sprinting, she wended her way through a group of Americans with tour books out. She ducked behind a pillar, raced toward the first car of the train and saw the conductor leaning down to raise the step. She yelled at him and he looked at her as if she were nuts. She climbed aboard and thanked him as he mounted the steps behind her and the doors snapped shut.

  Safe. She grabbed one of the handles hanging from the cei
ling. Sergio had not found her. Couldn’t catch her.

  She would never see him again.

  The thought made her stagger her back against the cold steel wall. Determined to forget him, she groped her way forward and found a seat, alone, blessedly alone. She sank down and felt hot tears sting her eyes. For pity’s sake, Reggie. If you knew you were going to cry, you could at least have bought some tissues in the farmacia instead of sniveling like a baby into your hand, couldn’t you?

  Oh, what the hell. She let the tears come.

  And she must’ve been a wailing mess too because the woman two seats up got up to hand her a few tissues and mutter some condolence.

  “Grazie, grazie,” Reggie repeated like a parrot. How foolish did she feel now?

  Her tears were dry, her hands crushing the mangled tissues when someone came and sat beside her. The scenery fled past in a blaze of yellow sun, ripe emerald hills and red-tiled roofs. The mesmerizing rhythm of the tracks on the rails soothed her ravaged soul and she sat limply, wiping the last of her tears.

  “Here, you need this too.” A dark male hand pressed a can of orange soda between her fingers.

  The voice she knew. The hand she knew.

  She thrust the can back at him. “I want nothing from you.”

  “That, my darling, is a lie.”

  She looked around. People turned, gazed at Sergio and nudged each other, assuring themselves it was indeed the great Sergio Avanti. Reggie crossed her arms and stared out the window. “Go away.”

  “No.”

  “I. Do. Not. Want. To. Talk. To. You.”

  “Good. Because the one who needs to talk is me.”

  She shot up from her seat, grabbed her little purse and tried to walk around him. But his legs barred her exit and when she pushed and managed to thrust one leg forward, his caught it between both of his knees. “Hear me, Regina.”

  This time his tone was louder, adamant.

  People shifted in their seats, murmured to each other, “Avanti, Avanti.”

  “No.” Reggie raised her voice. “Let me pass, Signore.” She would let them think he had made advances on her, which of course he had, but then that was moot now, wasn’t it? She groaned at him and nudged his legs. “I can make a scene, you know.”