Chapter Nine
Antonio
I’m whistling when I open my front door.
It’s not a particular song. Just a light tune that comes out of me without effort, like my body doesn’t know how to contain my good mood.
My suit is rumpled, my tie is gone, and my shirt is missing at least one button. There’s a faint scrape at my throat where she must’ve caught me with her nails, and the memory hits me like a slow drag of heat down my spine.
I step into my penthouse and kick the door shut behind me with my heel, do a quick little turn into my entry hall.
It’s all sleek with clean lines. The kind of space that looks sharp but feels lived in.
Pale stone underfoot, dark wood accents, a long hallway that opens into the main room with floor-to-ceiling glass facing the city.
No clutter, no chaos—just the right pieces placed with intention.
A low sectional in charcoal fabric that invites you to sit, linger, even nap.
A heavy wool throw folded over one arm. A large rug with a subtle pattern that softens the space and makes it inviting.
On the far wall, a bar cart with a marble top and brass frame sits beside a built-in cabinet.
Modern bottles, clean labels—next to a couple of old-world touches that make me smile every time I see them: a vintage decanter I stole from a villa years ago and a framed black-and-white photo of my parents in their Sunday best back in Italy.
I drop my keys in the shallow bowl by the entry—leather-lined, because I hate the clink—and peel my jacket off as I walk.
It slides down my arms, and a scent from last night drifts up to me. like a reminder that I’m still wearing last night, still carrying it on my skin.
Elsa.
My mouth goes dry just thinking of her.
Of course, I’ve done nothing but think of her.
Those lush lips.
Those long legs wrapped around my waist while she moaned my name into my mouth. Those silky thighs cupping my cheeks… I have to bite down on a groan as the memory of that delicious pussy bursts on my tongue.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” I mutter under my breath, and laugh at myself like I’m a teenager.
I’m in my forties. I’m supposed to have composure.
I do have composure.
Just not when I picture her hair spread on the pillow and her eyes gone hazy and warm and wrecked. Not when I remember her walking across the room, stiff and sore, completely naked.
Tonight.
I can’t wait to see her tonight.
And I already know where I’m taking her. The spot is perfect—private enough to keep it ours, loud enough to make it feel like a night out, elegant enough that she won’t think I’m wasting her time. A place with good lighting and better drinks, and the kind of service that knows when to disappear.
And then I’m bringing her back to my place and forcing her to stay through breakfast at least. Hell, through dinner tomorrow. It’ll be Sunday, so she can’t slide away for a damn meeting this time.
The thought makes me grin as I cross the living area. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it for a second, because my brain is still on her hands on my shoulders, her mouth, the way she looked when she said she’d surprise me.
Then it buzzes again.
I curse and pull it out. A message from Roberto.
Of course.
I should’ve known. I have no idea where they ended up last night with the Northstar people—tour, drinks, introductions, whatever Roberto decided was necessary—and I truly don’t care.
Yes, the acquisition is great for us, and I know I’m the charmer, the schmoozer. But I was off to much better things last night and don’t regret it for a second.
So, as far as I’m concerned, Northstar can wait.
But Roberto cares. And he’ll want to get together and talk about it. Talk about our next plan of action. So I should check in before he decides to show up at my door and lecture me like I’m nineteen.
I should’ve done it before leaving the casino this morning, but I desperately didn’t want to deal with it, so I slipped out.
I tap out a quick response with my thumb as I walk: Morning. I’m alive. I’ll meet you and Caterina in an hour. We’ll catch up then.
I hit send, then toss the phone onto the island.
Shower first.
I head down the hallway past the spare room that I currently use as an office—glass desk, leather chair, neat stacks of files, a bookshelf with hardcovers that look impressive, and a couple that I’ve actually read. An antique desk lamp sits on top of the modern desk. Old world, new world.
I like them both.
My bedroom is dimmer, the curtains half-drawn, the bed made because I like order, and I have a very efficient housekeeper.
A framed painting hangs over the headboard, Italian countryside in muted tones.
The bathroom beyond it is all stone and steam-ready glass, with a rainfall shower big enough to have a party in.
I kick off my shoes as I walk, leaving them by the edge of the rug, then start undoing the rest of my clothes like I’m stripping off a skin.
Cufflinks first—dropped into the tray on the dresser.
Then the belt. The sound of the buckle clicks too loudly in the quiet room.
My shirt comes next. I peel it off and toss it toward the hamper. It lands on the edge and slides off.
I stare at it for a second and laugh again, because my mind immediately supplies her hands fisting the fabric and yanking me closer. Her nails against my chest. Her mouth at my throat.
My body responds like it’s been waiting for it.
Not now.
Soon.
Tonight.
I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Water hisses, then roars. Steam starts to build against the glass. I strip my pants and underwear without ceremony, then stand under the spray and let the heat hit my shoulders and run down my back.
For a full minute, I do nothing but breathe.
Then my brain, traitor that it is, goes right back to her.
Elsa in the morning light, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes shining as she tried to be practical while her body betrayed her. Elsa tugging on that dress like she didn’t know it drove me insane. Elsa saying she had to leave but still clinging to me.
Elsa walking out the door.
I drag a hand down my face, water streaming off my jaw.
I’ve met beautiful women before. I’ve had easy, fun nights. I’ve had complicated ones.
But that… that felt like a collision.
And I don’t want it to be a one-time thing.
I don’t even know her last name. I don’t know her story. I don’t know what she does for work or fun, or what her favorite food is.
I just know she watched me with those careful eyes, then kissed me with abandon.
I tilt my head into the water and smile, slow and satisfied.
Roberto and Caterina can have their meeting. They can ask their questions. I’ll answer what I need to answer, and tonight… Tonight, I’ll see Elsa again.