Chapter 3 Aurelia
Aurelia
With the same intensity in his stare that he showed across the room, he blanketed me in his ironclad focus.
With quiet confidence, a command that rivaled the Roman emperors, he had an aura so distinct that I felt like I was in the presence of a president or a royal family member, someone of great importance.
Like prey that had been caught in the sights of the hunter, all I could do was remain still and wait for his next move.
After another stretch of silence, he spoke. “Constantine.” It was a single word, but the depth of his baritone was like a song. Deeply masculine, slightly grating, a bit intimidating. If he raised his voice a few octaves, every wall of the hotel would tremble.
I swallowed, knowing I couldn’t just sit there and continue my stare. I had to break the spell he cast on me and participate. “Aurelia.”
He gave a slight nod. “Beautiful name. It suits you.”
“It does?” I asked.
“It means gilded, golden. So yes, I’d say it does.”
This drop-dead gorgeous man had just chosen me over an easy lay .
. . and called me golden. I’d never needed encouragement more than I did now, medicine for the disease that had nearly killed me.
He had no idea what he’d done for me, pulled me out of the mud I’d allowed myself to wallow in, and he would never know.
For the first time, not in days, but weeks and probably months, I smiled.
Felt the invisible pressure of twenty tons leave my shoulders and render me free.
My smile felt lighter than a cloud, so natural and so genuine, and the flush in my neck filled my cheeks with a warmth I hadn’t felt in my eternal winter.
His gaze shifted slightly, dropped down to my mouth before it returned to my eyes, like something about my smile caught his attention.
“Constantine suits you too. Named after a Roman emperor.”
He smirked slightly. “You know your history.”
“I’m Roman, so kinda comes with the territory.” I straightened my spine, perked up my tits, grabbed the glass, and took a drink from the straw. The heat of the mezcal burned my stomach instantly.
He’d left his drink behind at the other table, but the waiter wordlessly presented a new one and placed it on a coaster. He also took the bill I’d placed on the table but left my credit card behind before he walked off.
As confused as I was, I didn’t ask any questions.
“Are you staying at this hotel?”
“God no,” I said with a quick laugh. “I’d have to start an OnlyFans to afford this place.”
The smile on his mouth was instant and reached his eyes. He was so damn good looking when he wore that smolder, but when he smiled like that . . . chef’s kiss. It was brief, but it was genuine before it faded back to a slight smirk. “You’d be in the presidential suite in no time.”
“Would you be one of my subscribers?” I hadn’t had confidence or courage like this in at least a year, but it came back to me like second nature, the old me finally reaching the surface and taking her first breath of air.
He smirked. “I prefer the live show.”
The tightness in my stomach was so strong, I felt an invisible hand grip and squeeze. “You’re in luck, because I think my next performance is really soon.”
The smirk was still there, a distinct playfulness in his eyes. “How soon?”
I grabbed my glass and took a drink. “In the next hour or so.” I didn’t recognize myself at all, flirting with this man who could have anyone he wanted, basically inviting him to bed when all I knew was his name.
But he’d made his interest clear when he came to my table, and I wanted my interest to be just as clear.
A night with him would give me the biggest ego boost I could ever receive.
Would put a swagger back in my step. Would give me the strength to grab my things from the apartment and flip Enzo off on the way out.
Would remind me that I wasn’t the problem—he was.
“Not gonna miss that.” He reached for his glass and took a drink. It was amber colored, with ice, so I wasn’t sure if it was whiskey and Coke or scotch on the rocks or maybe gin. But whatever it was, it was stiff.
“Are you staying here?”
He gave a slight nod.
“Presidential suite?” I teased.
The smirk that lingered on his lips finally faded away. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He was deadly serious, the intensity back in his gaze, and he pulled off something that no other man possibly could—effortlessly.
Thank god I shaved today. “What brings you to Taormina?” I changed the subject because if we kept talking about all the fucking we were going to do, I wouldn’t be able to finish my drink.
“Family.”
“So you’re from Taormina?”
“Born and raised.”
“And why would you leave such a beautiful place?” A place where you could walk everywhere, have the best granita and brioche in the world, to see beaches that rivaled the Amalfi coast.
“Work.”
“What do you do?” Now I knew he had money, if he could afford a place like this. That meant he had an interesting career, maybe a business owner or a physician or a lawyer. But his vibe didn’t fit any of those occupations.
There was a long pause before he answered, a pause that probably shouldn’t be there for such a simple question. His eyes trailed away before they came back to me. “Private security.”
Security. That fit him perfectly. I could tell by his tone that further questions weren’t welcome. I wondered what that could mean, if perhaps he was part of the security detail that protected the president or even the pope. That would explain his wealth, his hard presence, his muscularity.
“What about you?” he asked. “You know, just until the OnlyFans career takes off.” He smirked again.
When he smiled like that . . . oh fuck, my ovaries. That smile made me borderline unhinged, almost made me lean in and kiss him in the middle of the damn bar. How could he go from serious to playful with such ease?
When his smirk dropped and that intensity set into his handsome face again, I remembered he’d asked me a question.
“I’m a photographer.”
“What kind of photographer?”
“I do a bit of everything. Photography and videography for new businesses or hotels. I also shoot weddings and corporate retreats. My passion is fine art photography, but it’s hard to make a living that way.”
“What is fine art photography?” he asked, the hardness in his eyes showing a sincere interest.
“It’s basically a creative form of photography where you’re trying to capture a vision rather than the subject.
The best way I can describe it is, it’s like trying to make a painting with a camera.
Trying to make art with reality. A painter has the ability to do whatever they want, change the sky from blue to rain clouds, to change the features of the subject from happy to sad, free rein to show whatever emotion they’re trying to evoke.
But as a photographer, I’m at the mercy of reality. So it’s very hard to do.”
His eyes remained on mine, and he seemed absorbed in my answer. He didn’t interrupt me to ask follow-up questions. Just listened. “And how does that kind of photographer make money?”
“They sell their photographs in galleries and at art shows. The best of the best sell them like paintings, making tens of thousands of euros per picture. Others go for mass production, so restaurants and other places can all buy copies and put them up on their walls. But then you see the same picture all over the place.”
“And you’d prefer the first one.”
“Yes.” It was my passion, something I’d wanted since the first time I held a camera. I didn’t have the talent or the eye to paint or sculpt, but I could work magic with a camera. The question was—did everyone else agree?
“Keep trying.”
“I do,” I said. “This is the only thing I want to do with my life, so I’ll either make it . . . or I’ll keep trying to make it until I die.”
He crossed his arms over his massive chest and gave a slight smile. “I like that attitude.”
“I’m not dedicated or ambitious. It’s just the kind of passion that doesn’t die.”
“And very few people are that passionate about anything.” He grabbed his glass and took another drink, practically ingesting diesel, based on the fumes I could smell.
Enzo had been somewhat interested in my photography in the beginning, but that curiosity had been short-lived.
Whenever I showed him my photographs, he said they were nice, but he never really looked at them.
Not the way I wanted the audience to look at my art.
He worked in finance, so I knew he didn’t have an eye for artwork, so I just excused it.
But Constantine seemed genuinely interested, especially since he’d already secured me in his bed for the night.
I went out on a limb and asked a question that maybe I shouldn’t. “What are you passionate about?”
He shook the ice that peeked from the top of his glass, then crossed his arms again.
He considered the question with a stoic expression, but even then, he looked handsome.
Deep in thought, eyebrows slightly furrowed, he really soaked it in.
“Food. Family. And my country.” When he was done answering, he looked at me again.
Family was an obvious answer, but the other two were surprises. “Could you elaborate on that?”
“Food and family are so close together they’re practically the same.”
“You just don’t seem like someone who . . . you know . . . enjoys food.” My eyes trailed over his hard body, a body that could only be created with intense discipline. Heavy weights every single day. A very specific diet. When my eyes found his again, it was obvious he’d watched me look him over.
“My family owns Rosticceria Da Cristina. Been in the family since before I was born. I worked there all throughout school. My aunt had a passion for that restaurant, and she didn’t stop until she made it happen.
She used all the recipes given to her grandmother from her grandmother.
She still cooked dinner at night after a long day, hosted family dinners every Sunday, even when her hands hurt. To us, food and family are the same.”
Now I understood why he was there that day. He must have just gotten into town and swung by to see friends and family at the restaurant. “Then that means you know how to make that arancini.”
He smiled. “Along with everything else.”
A beautiful man who could cook . . . damn. “That’s pretty sexy.”
The smile remained on his lips, like the compliment meant something to him. For a man who was so visibly hard and intense on the outside, he was actually charming and easy to talk to. Not arrogant like I thought he might be.
“Do you cook?”
“Not really, honestly.”
“Then how do you feed yourself?”
“I go out a lot. Don’t judge me.”
“I didn’t judge you for the OnlyFans, so I certainly won’t judge you for that.” He was also quick, witty, and funny. “How long are you in Taormina?”
“Another week. Do you visit a lot?”
“Whenever I can. Except in August.”
“Why not August?”
“If you’ve ever been here in August, you would know why,” he said with a chuckle. “Overrun with tourists. Can’t even walk through the square with the clock tower without bumping into someone.”
“This is my first time visiting.”
“And how do you like it?”
“I love it.” I hadn’t been able to enjoy it much because Enzo was being an ass or I was too depressed after he’d left. But in this moment, I started to appreciate it.
“Are you here with anyone?”
The question made my chest tighten. It felt like an intrusion into a vault I didn’t want to open.
I didn’t want to spill my soul to this man I barely knew.
Didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of a man I would never see again after tonight.
Knowing another man had thrown me away wasn’t exactly a turn-on.
And knowing I’d stayed and fought for a man who didn’t give a damn about me was the greatest embarrassment of my life.
So, I lied. “I came here with my friend Alex, but she had to leave . . . for work.” I wasn’t a liar, was pretty shitty at it, to be honest, but I wasn’t about to drop a suitcase of baggage on the table and ruin the night.
“I couldn’t get a refund, so I decided to stay.
” I grabbed my glass and took another drink, letting the booze wash down the lie that continued to lurk in my throat.
His sharp eyes were still on me, but they gave no reaction to what I’d shared. The stare continued long after I finished talking, but he asked no additional questions.
The group of girls left their table and walked by.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at them before, but this time, I watched them pass, and I didn’t miss the sharp knives in their eyes. Potent hostility directed at me or Constantine, I wasn’t sure which. Their heels continued to tap on the tile floor before they moved up the stairs and left.
I swirled my glass to dissipate the tension, but it lingered. “I’m not sure who they hate, you or me.”
“Me.”
My eyes flicked to his. “What did you say to her?”
“The truth—wasn’t interested.”
“Because . . . ?” Now that I’d gotten a better look, every single one of those girls was beautiful. All in short dresses and heels, long hair with earrings flashing in their lobes, ready to attract the attention of any man they wanted.
“Because I want you.” His stare hardened on my face as he continued to meet my gaze. Maybe this was all an act he put on to get women in his bed. A tactic to close the deal.
And maybe I was the biggest fool on the planet for falling for it.
But when I looked at this man, I didn’t see a performance or a charade. I saw the sincerity behind his dark eyes, saw a man who didn’t play games. A man this beautiful didn’t need lines or skits. He could have anyone he wanted, whenever he wanted.
So I chose to believe this was real—that he was real.
I’d been out of the game for years, so I didn’t have any of my own moves to seal the deal. So, without thinking, I just went for it. I moved my hand to his muscular thigh under the table and gave a gentle squeeze. “Then take me.”