Chapter Six
Six
Casanova
Lorenzo
I look at Daisy Hogan, taken by surprise. Does she really want me to role-play with her? Is she actually surrendering?
Her eyes sparkle with anticipation. Lust.
Yeah, she is.
My chest trembles and pulses with the excitement running through my veins. I almost can’t believe she’s yielding. Maybe this will be yet another teaser, and she’ll pull away when things get too hot.
Regardless, I want to do this. So bad.
I run my fingers over the black glitter of the mask. She failed to lure Jeremy into her fantasy, and now I’m the target.
A very willing one.
“Should I put it on?” I lift the mask.
“I can help you,” she says in her unassuming, seductive way. I can’t believe she thinks she’s bad at this. It works so damn well for me. I already feel my body responding to her voice, my skin tingling, my breathing heavy.
I put the mask on my face and turn around for her to tie the lace.
As I’m significantly taller, I lean my head back so she can more easily reach.
Her hands work the ribbons, and just feeling her presence behind me—her fingers taking my hair out of the way, gently scraping my scalp—makes a shiver run through my spine.
“Done,” she says, and I turn around.
“Perfect,” I say slowly, with emphasis. After all, the mask is in place—and most importantly, this was a proper first step on a seducing journey. I want Daisy to know that. “So, I’m Casanova now?”
“Yes,” she says with a sweet and audacious smile.
I’ve been intrigued by Casanova since I read his autobiography in my third year of high school.
The book has bits and quotes I liked so much that I memorized them.
But I wonder if Daisy knows the dark side of the world’s most famous seducer—that his conquests included rape, pedophilia, and incest. I won’t ruin the mood by telling her that.
The Casanova she knows is the Heath Ledger character, and I have no problem sticking to the romanticized version and playing a forgivable asshole.
The quick-witted antihero who loves women, freedom, luxury, and adventure.
The one who breaks hearts but respects ladies and gives them one hell of a good time.
After all, I’ve been that man since I moved to Venice and left the violin behind.
“Shouldn’t you wear your mask too?” I point at the blue Colombina maschera in her hands. She lifts it to her face, and I quickly go around her to tie the ribbons.
I take my time, as it’s a great opportunity to tease her.
First, I gather her hair in my hands, brushing the skin of her neck in the process, and put her hair to the side so she can hold it.
It’s not strictly necessary—I’m not putting on a necklace, after all—but I know it will make her feel delightful chills, so I keep touching her hair, adjusting it so the lace won’t tie any loose strands.
I want to hear her breath, so I make an excuse to get closer to her face. I hold her shoulders and bring my mouth next to her ear to whisper, “Let me know if it’s too tight or not tight enough.”
She nods, and I hear the air exiting her half-open mouth. I can see the thin blond hairs on her skin going up as I run my fingers lightly over her arms, all the way up to her head, where I take the ribbons on each side of the mask and tie them together in the middle.
The lace takes only a few seconds to be done, but I’m not making this process quick and straightforward.
I turn her around with my hands on her bare shoulders.
Today, she wears a black top with thin straps and a long, flowing blue skirt.
So beautiful… The mask matches her outfit, and I feel butterflies in my stomach as I look at her covered face.
I’ll never forget this moment. It will be one of those cherished memories that make me smile even after life is vastly different.
“Who are you going to be?” I ask her, wanting to know her role in our game.
But I realize I want to ask her this question on a much larger scale.
Who are you going to be when you leave Venice?
What do you want to do with your life? Those are foreign thoughts.
I never think of the future when I’m with a woman.
I tell my mind to shut up and be in the present.
“I’m just a stranger,” she answers. “A faceless woman you met at a masquerade.”
I nod, smirking. This encounter is off the record. We weren’t here.
My pulse quickens. The “forbidden” nature of our unusual date only makes things more exciting.
“Shall we dance, mysterious woman?” I stretch out my hand in a gentlemanly invitation.
I’m sure she expected me to say these words.
Maybe all this theater was her way to get us twirling around the magnificent ballroom.
She looks like she could be a good dancer.
She has a ballerina’s build. And she wouldn’t be wrong if she guessed I wouldn’t embarrass myself on the dance floor.
She glances around as if expecting speakers—or an orchestra—to start playing for us.
She could object to my offer, saying there is no music.
She could ignore the silence, take my hand, and dance to the lone echo of our footsteps.
But instead, she takes something out of her purse and places a small object in my outstretched hand.
An earbud.
She quickly drops her purse on the nearest chair and taps a few times on her phone. Vivaldi starts playing in my right ear and in her left one: “L’Inverno: II. Largo.” I smile as she walks toward me, serious and concentrating, like a dancer approaching her partner.
I drop my smile and embrace the intensity of the moment.
She finally takes my hand, and I draw her closer with a smooth movement.
She ends up in my arms, one of my hands on hers, the other on her waist. We look at each other, ready to waltz, but before I seize the cues of the romantic piece playing for us, Daisy leans closer to say in my available ear, “Next time, you’ll play for me. ”
A shiver runs through me. A reaction to the idea of playing violin for Daisy? Or to the indication that there will be a next time? Unsettling regardless. I’m not supposed to want either.
After her whispered comment, her torso is against mine, and I’m making sure to keep her there, my arm tight around her slim waist.
We shouldn’t be so close for waltzing, but I don’t care. I start swaying, carrying her along in a dancing embrace. We are cheek to cheek, eyes closed to feel the moment—the heat of our skin connecting, the music guiding us, the chemistry exhaling from our pores, drawing us closer and closer.
I feel the shapes of her body, every soft and hard curve fitting perfectly against my chest and abdomen. She is warm and deliciously solid, even though she feels like a foggy dream that will slip through my fingers in the blink of an eye.
The close contact is arousing me to vicious extents.
My body touching hers seems to be seducing her as much as it’s seducing me.
Her face looks… stunned . Like she’s trying to cope with the turbulence in her organs…
especially the lower ones. I deeply enjoy the feeling.
But I don’t want this to escalate too quickly.
I’m supposed to give her an unforgettable waltz, so I rather abruptly unglue our bodies, keeping the appropriate distance.
She blinks at me with a mix of disappointment and surrender.
Her brain is not working anymore, and neither is mine.
But that’s good. We’re fully immersed in our roles, living entirely in the present.
I spin her around the ballroom to the sound of “L’autunno: III. Alegro,” admittedly showing off. My skills don’t go unnoticed. Daisy smiles as we dance, following my lead with ease.
“What are you not good at?” she asks with a smirk, and I smile back, flattered.
Good has never been enough for me. I’ve always wanted to be excellent at everything I set out to do. My search for perfection has caused me anxiety and sorrow, but it also gave me qualities I’m proud of.
I’m not supposed to be Lorenzo right now, but I want to share something personal with her.
“ Mia nonna …my maternal grandma…provided me with a first-class education despite not being rich or influential,” I say as we dance. “I owe my fine tastes to her, as well as my cultural and intellectual knowledge.”
Daisy’s eyebrows rise with the corners of her lips. “It sounds like the two of you were close.”
I nod. “Yes, especially after my mother passed away,” I say. “Mamma was an opera singer. The few memories I have of her are connected to music.”
I often think of what it would have been like to play in an orchestra while Mamma sang. Nonna has a VHS with a recording of Mamma singing Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro.” It was the first piece I learned to play.
Daisy’s lips part as she looks at me with gleaming eyes. Before she can say she’s sorry for me, I continue. “Six months after Mamma died of meningitis, my father left me with Nonna to marry another woman. I was five. Nonna then gave me a violin to cheer me up, and I poured my soul into it.”
Daisy comes closer, and we slow down.
“This is Lorenzo’s story, not Casanova’s, right?”
I smile. “Yes. But there are similarities,” I say. “Casanova was a violinist, and his parents, who were actors, left him with his grandma at a young age.”
That is one of the reasons I identified with him the moment I started reading his autobiography. “My father was a doctor, though,” I tell Daisy. “He wanted nothing to do with music or the arts.”
He was too rational, too arrogant to realize the value of anything that came out of the soul.
He didn’t believe we had one.
“I lost my mother when I was very young too,” Daisy says, awakening me from my memories. I look at her light brown eyes. They are like honey. Sweet and dense. “I was raised by my dad, and I loved him very much. But I think I told you that already.”