Chapter 2 - A Beautiful Disaster in First Class
Matteo
I watch her pretend to read the magazine, her face set in deep concentration. She hasn't turned the page in twenty minutes, but at least she's gotten over the wedding picture.
Now, she's on a perfume ad and she keeps on glancing over at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
Normally, I like a quiet flight, but she was just so hard to ignore.
It's not every day that you sit next to a bride going on her honeymoon solo. I was intrigued and my curiosity paid off.
She's funny, interesting and most importantly she's stunning. I've had a really tough time keeping my eyes off her. Her plush lips, hazel eyes, and her cleavage exposed by the low-cut neckline of her dress.
Brady or what's his name really messed up.
She's still in love with the guy. However, it's admirable that she's trying to move on.
I like that she's single, but there's too much going on with her and I don't do complicated.
I prefer order over chaos.
Something within my control.
I've never had a long-term relationship and as sad as it may sound, short-term works well for me.
All my 'relationships' almost always end up the same way. I meet a girl. She finds out that I'm rich. She uses me for my money. I get my needs satisfied. After a while I get bored, and we break up.
It's somewhat transactional.
The structure is simple and there's zero drama, although sometimes I get a jealous ex or two, but it's nothing compared to what my seatmate has been through.
My last relationship was about two months ago. Victoria, the girl I was dating was lovely, everything was going well, but after two weeks, I was starting to get bored.
Something was lacking.
So, for a while, I took a break from dating and focused on work.
Meeting my seatmate and chatting with her stirred something in me. Interest. Excitement. Or maybe I'm just horny.
Christ! I need to get laid.
My dick is still hard from when she touched my thigh. Had her hand gone a bit higher, she would have felt my erection and I don't even want to imagine how uncomfortable that would have been for both of us.
Since then, I've been trying to get a bit of work done, but I can't concentrate on anything other than the woman beside me.
I look over at her just in time and catch her staring at me. She has this intense look in her eyes as if she's trying to figure me out.
My eyes, on their own accord, drop to her lips which have a slight pink hue, then down to her chest. I can already imagine how her breasts would fit perfectly in my hands.
"Are you a celebrity?" she asks, taking me by surprise.
I chuckle. "No."
"Politician?"
"Nope."
"Model."
"I wish," I joke. "I'm just a simple businessman."
"Yeah, right," she scoffs, looks at my wrist, and shakes her head.
Yeah, there's nothing simple about the Patek Philippe watch and the white gold cufflinks. I can see why she assumed that I was a celebrity.
Although back at home, I'm kind of famous. My company manages and owns a large percentage of the city's hotels. We've been expanding to other cities, hence the trip to New York.
"I'm Matteo. Matteo De Luca."
I extend my hand in greeting even though we're already past that.
She takes it in a firm shake "Sasha."
"Wonderful to meet you Cara Mia."
I briefly consider kissing the back of her hand, but I resist the urge. Instead, I let my hand linger a moment longer before releasing her.
The brief touch sends jolts of electricity up my arm, and I can't help but notice the way her fingers playfully dance over her thigh after our handshake.
"So, Matteo De Luca, what kind of business are you in?"
I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms. "Hospitality."
"Hospitality, huh?" She tilts her head, studying me with renewed interest. "Like hotels?"
"Hotels, luxury resorts, some restaurants." I shrug, trying to make it sound less impressive than it is.
My family has built an empire across Italy, with properties stretching from Lake Como to Sicily. "De Luca Hospitality Group. Maybe you've heard of it?"
"Can't say that I have," she says, and oddly, I find her ignorance refreshing.
I'm used to women who've Googled me before our first date ends. Who know my net worth before they know my favorite color. There's something disarming about Sasha's genuine curiosity.
"So, what about you?" I ask, shifting to face her more directly. "What brought you to Italy before... all this?" I gesture vaguely at her wedding dress, which rustles softly as she crosses her legs.
The movement draws my attention to the high slit in her gown, revealing a glimpse of toned thigh. I clear my throat, forcing my eyes back to her face.
"I'm in International Relations," she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I'm actually hoping to work with the EU delegation in Rome eventually."
My eyebrows raise involuntarily. "That's... impressive."
"You sound surprised."
"No, not surprised," I correct myself quickly. "Impressed. There's a difference."
She smiles, and for the first time since boarding, it reaches her eyes.
“So, you plan on staying in Rome after your solo honeymoon?”
She nods. “Yup. I have family here. Hoping to connect to my roots and all.”
The thought of running into her again excites me. So much could happen.
"Italian roots?" I ask, surprised. "You don't have an accent."
"Mother's side," she explains. "My grandmother was born in Frascati. Mom moved to the States before I was born, but we visited almost every summer when I was a kid."
I find myself leaning closer, drawn in by her lips. As if reading my mind, she licks them, and I almost lose my mind.
The act, simple yet seductive makes my dick stir in my pants.
I want to kiss her. Taste her. But the logic in my mind fights back. She’s still in a wedding for Christ’s sake!
"I haven't been back in a long time," she continues. "But I've always wanted to live there. I speak decent Italian—well, decent enough to order food and say hello.”
“That’s a start,” I reply.
"Yeah.” she pauses, as if in deep thought then continues, “Brandon never wanted to visit," she admits, her smile faltering slightly. "He said Europe was overrated. Too old, too crowded."
"A man of impeccable taste," I say sarcastically.
She snorts, covering her mouth. "God, he once suggested we go to Vegas instead of Florence because 'they have that Italian hotel with the fake canals.'"
I place a hand over my heart feigning horror. "Such profanity."
"Right? I should've known then."
The flight attendant appears with another round of drinks—I hadn't even ordered them. She places a glass of champagne in front of Sasha and a scotch for me, hovering a moment too long.
"Anything else, Mr. De Luca?" There's that familiar suggestive tone I've grown accustomed to.
"No, grazie," I respond, not bothering to look up.
When she leaves, Sasha raises an eyebrow. "She's very... attentive."
I shrug. "I fly this route often."
"Mmm," Sasha hums, unconvinced. "I'm sure that's all it is."
I change the subject. "So, what part of Rome will you be staying in?"
She gives me a look. And I realize that I’m prying too deep. “I promise I’m not a creepy serial killer guy.”
“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say,” she teases.
“Touché,” I concede with a grin.
"I'm staying in Trastevere," she says, taking a sip of champagne. "Found this amazing Airbnb. The owner says it has a terrace with a view of the bell towers."
"Trastevere," I repeat, unable to hide my smile. "One of the most beautiful neighborhoods in Rome. Though, also one of the most difficult to navigate."
"That's part of the charm, isn't it?" Sasha's eyes light up as she speaks. "Those narrow cobblestone streets, the ivy climbing up buildings, little cafés tucked into corners."
"You sound like you've memorized a travel brochure."
She laughs. "I might have read a few. Okay, maybe twenty." Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. "I've had this trip planned for so long—every restaurant I want to try, every hidden piazza I want to visit."
"And now?"
"Now..." She pauses, looking down at her wedding dress, running her hand over the delicate lace. "Now I'll do it all anyway. Just differently."
There's a quiet determination in her voice that I find myself admiring. Most people would have canceled, crawled into bed and wallowed in self-pity. But not this woman.
The flight attendant announces our initial descent into Rome. Sasha presses her face to the window watching as the city materializes beneath us.
"It's beautiful," she whispers, almost to herself.
I watch her profile as she gazes out the window—the curve of her neck, the way her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks.
I want to see her again. I know I said I don’t like complicated situations, but she’s just so captivating. I want to know everything about her.
"Trastevere can be chaotic," I warn her. "Especially in summer. Tourists everywhere, pickpockets too."
She turns back to me with a confident smile. "I survived four years in Manhattan. I think I can handle a few pushy tourists."
"And your luggage? How will you manage in those narrow streets? In that dress?"
"I'll figure it out," she says with a dismissive wave.
The plane touches down with a gentle bump, taxiing toward the terminal. As passengers begin the frantic shuffle of gathering belongings, Sasha struggles with the zipper on her small carry-on bag.
"Let me," I offer, reaching over.
Our fingers brush as I take the bag from her, and there it is again—that strange electric current. She notices it too; I can tell by the way her breath catches slightly.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the chaos of the disembarking passengers fades away. There's something unspoken passing between us—something dangerous and thrilling that makes my pulse quicken. I clear my throat and hand her the fixed bag.
"Grazie," she murmurs, the Italian word rolling off her tongue with surprising authenticity.
The seatbelt sign dings off, and Sasha stands, smoothing down her wedding dress, which has remarkably survived the transatlantic flight with minimal wrinkles.