Epilogue Capri
EMILY
“Lorenzo, this hotel is so opulent!”
We stand in the opulent lobby of our exclusive cliffside hotel perched high above the glittering Mediterranean in Capri.
The warm Italian sun wraps around us as a gentle sea breeze cools my flushed skin.
Though Lorenzo and I wear chic, lightweight clothing to suit the Italian weather, the front desk man wears a dark, very formal suit.
Man, he must be hot in that weather, I think to myself. Yet he greets us with perfect professionalism.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Ricci,” he says smoothly, extending his pen toward Lorenzo.
I watch my husband sign the register with that commanding confidence that still makes my heart race after weeks of marriage.
He’s so gorgeous. I can hardly believe that I resisted him for so long …
And on that first night, even put up a ‘wall of pillows.’
“Ready, wife?”
Flashing a smile at Lorenzo, I’m hardly able to believe this gorgeous man is truly mine.
I catch a glimpse of us standing together in the mirror, Lorenzo, with his dark good looks, and me with my auburn hair in my strict French twist.
Whether we are in the glittering streets of Manhattan or here in his ancestral Italy, Lorenzo always looks in control and somehow, superhuman with his intense dark looks.
And something about Capri brings out the full Italian fire in him. His skin, always attractively tanned, seems even more touched by the sun now, glowing golden against the crisp white shirt that clings to his powerful frame.
He looks like a living advertisement for luxury, for danger, for everything I have come to crave.
The concierge turns to smile at us.
“I will have you shown to your room right now.”
He slaps his palm against a little old-fashioned bell. The kind you see in classic black-and-white movies.
Within seconds, one of the smartly dressed staffers appears.
“Your luggage has already been transferred to the suite,” the man says, clicking his heels together smartly. “Please follow me.”
Before we leave the lobby, a woman in the same uniform, tailored perfectly to accentuate her curves, approaches us holding a tray of sparkling wine.
“Good afternoon. May I offer you some wine from our premium sparkling region, Franciacorta?” she asks with a warm smile.
Her eyes linger a little too long on Lorenzo for my taste.
A sharp pang of jealousy twists in my chest.
“Yes, thank you,” I say rather smartly, despite myself.
Some girls handle beautiful women around their husbands with ease, I think to myself.
But she is stunning and tall and Italian, like Lorenzo.
And I’m diminutive with red hair and freckles and from Boston.
Right now, the difference between us in height and all kinds of ways bothers me more than I care to admit.
Lorenzo notices my discomfort immediately.
“Cara mia,” he says, taking two flutes of the sparkler and handing one to me as we move out of earshot of the staff.
“You mustn’t worry. You must not be jealous.”
His voice is low and intimate against my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine.
I smile because he is right, of course.
Then, in a low whisper, he teases me. Telling me I should take advantage of this sultry weather to unlace my buttoned-up top and also my prudish, all too proper Bostonian attitudes.
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already suspect.
“I mean,” he says with a wicked glint in his eyes, “You should unbutton that high-necked shirt a bit. Maybe even take that gold barrette out of your hair and let it free.”
I protest softly. But he just smirks and shakes his head.
As we pass a large mirror, I catch my reflection and wonder if he is right. Since we’ve been married, I kept my Bostonian discipline in the way I dress.
My long auburn hair always up, often tightly braided. And only comes down when Lorenzo performs his favorite nightly ritual of freeing my hair from its tight gold barrette.
The bellman opens the double doors to our suite with a dramatic flourish.
I step inside and gasp. “Oh my God, Lorenzo, it’s beautiful.”
The space is breathtaking—elegant, airy. Filled with luxurious details that speak of old-world Italian charm blended with modern comfort.
Lorenzo smirks slips a generous tip to the porter. Finally, we are blissfully alone.
I wander through the hallway, the large and airy bathroom, and then into the bedroom. Here, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the thrashing turquoise sea.
“Oh my God,” I say again, turning to him. “The bed is big enough for an orgy.”
“Don’t give me ideas,” Lorenzo replies, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me onto the massive bed with him.
He moves his powerful body onto mine and immediately starts giving me delicate, juicy kisses. They start at my ear, trace the lines of my jaw, and slide down my neck.
It feels wonderful to be ravished like this, especially in the suite of a chic Italian luxury hotel that must cost thousands of dollars a night.
Of course, our penthouse at The Circle Hotel in Manhattan is chic and luxurious too.
Yet it’s different here.
Maybe because for the first time in months, I have Lorenzo all to myself. In Manhattan, he serves as consigliere to his brother Dante, the head of the Ricci Mafia ruling the city.
“What do you want to play tonight, wife?” he asks in that husky voice.
He unbuttons my blouse in his hurried, impatient way.
When the buttons prove too slow for him, he yanks the whole thing off.
“Lorenzo!” I say in a half-hearted protest.
“Lorenzo me all you like,” he says, his voice a stern warning that sends a thrill racing through me. “I can do what I like with my property. And you are my property.”
I should slap his face for the possessive words. Yet every time he says these words, I feel titillation.
Lorenzo reaches behind me and roughly unhooks my bra, freeing my breasts.
He covers them with his large hands, teasing my nipples into stiff peaks with expert fingers.
Next to come off are my white Capri pants.
I had never worn them before this trip, but when Antoine was shopping for my Capri wardrobe, he insisted.
“If you don’t wear them there, where will you wear them, my dear?” he had said.
It was a good point.
Lorenzo’s powerful hand sweeps off my silk panties, the ones held together by delicate bows on each hip.
“And now,” he growls, “I am going to ravish you.”
“Can I at least take a shower first?” I ask, trying to squirm out from under his muscular frame.
“I like my women like my martinis strong and dirty,” he replies, licking my sweaty neck as if to prove the point.
Lorenzo takes it one step further by licking my underarms. I giggle because it tickles, but it also feels so good and wonderfully naughty. I have never had my underarm licked before, not even by him.
This must be the magic of Capri working on us.
“You know what goes good with sweaty armpits?” he asks with a mischievous grin.
I am almost afraid to know.
“Tequila.”
He gets up, walks to the illuminated bar in the suite’s living room stocked with top-line liquors, and returns with a striking blue square bottle and a tiny shot glass.
“And now I am going to taste test you to see if you are the right recipe.”
I begin to say his name again, but he looks at me sternly.
“I said, ‘don’t Lorenzo me.’ You must remain silent.”
I press my lips together, wondering what wicked plan he has in mind.
He pours a shot glass of tequila onto my belly and slowly, sensually licks and nibbles it from my skin.
“Right,” he says appreciatively.
“Keep pouring and licking like that and you’ll get drunk,” I say.
“Bring it on,” he says, pouring himself another shot.
When he returns, he drizzles it down my bare, glistening sex.
“I like this recipe,” he murmurs, rubbing in the alcohol. “I’ll have the barman name it the Capri Ricci.”
Lorenzo laughs, a deep, growling sound I love.
The tequila stings. But Lorenzo’s first licks sooth that sensation so I only feel pleasure as his talented tongue works its magic.
He drizzles more tequila all over my sex. But his tongue now focuses on the sweaty corners where my thigh meets my outer lips.
“Tasty,” he says between nibbles. “Delicious!” He blows his warm breath on me, and I nearly explode with pent-up desire.
“This is the best drink I have ever had,” he says, continuing to lick me clean.
I moan. “Silence,” he commands.
But there is humor and heat in his voice.
His tongue continues its exquisite work, venturing closer to my clit. torture. Lorenzo has a way of teasing me mercilessly …tiny flicks that never quite give me the direct contact I desperately need.
I want his tongue to possess me completely.
“I want you to taste yourself,” he says, his lips wet and glistening as he approaches my mouth. “Pussy juice and tequila.”
I laugh breathlessly.
“Still not the right name for a fifty-dollar cocktail,” I say.
“We will think of something more clever,” he promises.
His five o’clock shadow is scruffy and abrasive against my tender face. Yet it feels so good. Very good.
“Oh, Lorenzo!”
He kisses me in a thousand different ways—nipping at my lips, sucking them, using his tongue to penetrate my mouth.
My clit throbs, begging for relief. I feel his hard cock through the thin fabric of his summer shorts pressing against my leg.
He wants me as much as I want him.
“Come into me now,” I say, breathless with desire.
“Woman,” he replies with a dominant edge, “you have to wait.”
I do not know how he can wait himself.
When I yank his shorts down, hoping to accelerate things, I feel my thigh become wet with his pre-cum.
“Please, Lorenzo,” I beg.
But he does not listen yet. He continues kissing me, then moves down to my breasts, sucking my nipples before pouring more tequila there.
“Absolute ambrosia,” he declares. “I am going to have to talk to the bartender about this drink.”
I giggle again, lost in the playful heat between us.
Lorenzo takes my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes for a moment.
Then, instead of what I expect, he turns me over onto my stomach.
He pours more tequila into the crack between my ass cheeks.
“I am a good bartender,” he says. “I need to add the most exotic ingredient to my drink.”
He teases me, skirting around the edges of my tight hole and bringing me into a frenzy of need.
Then his tongue ventures in, working me gently at first but with growing intensity.
It feels so much more intense than when he does the same to my pussy. I can barely contain myself.
“Please, Lorenzo.”
He does not need much more encouragement.
Lorenzo reaches for something, stands briefly while keeping me pinned, and returns with thick, unctuous lube.
Of course Lorenzo came prepared.
He squirts it into me, strips completely, slides his hand under my belly, and presses the tip of his cock against my anus.
“Ready?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear.
He is only an inch into me, but I know what to expect and brace myself against the bed, pushing back to meet him.
Yes. He plunges deeper. There is a tearing, momentary burn that quickly transforms into overwhelming pleasure as he begins to move in and out.
Lorenzo’s hand alternates between cupping my breasts and teasing my erect nipples, then reaching down to stimulate my throbbing clit.
I don’t know how long I can take this exquisite combination of pressure and pleasure. It is addictive. He moves faster, goes deeper, testing how well I can take all of him.
Finally he commands, “Come for me. Come now. Be a good girl.”
I hesitate only a second.
That is all it takes. I explode in a shattering orgasm. When I do, he crashes into me harder, pumping with raw power until he explodes in ecstasy too, filling me completely.
We lie there on the enormous bed afterward, panting, not moving, wrapped in each other.
Through the slit of the open window I see the sky moving from light to darker blue, and then finally the edge of true night arriving.
“That was incredible,” I whisper, snuggling deeper into his arms as he wraps them around me and holds me close.
The love we found after starting as a fake marriage feels even stronger here in Capri.
Lorenzo has given me everything—protection, passion, and a partnership I never
knew I needed.
He kisses my hair and says, “Let’s get up. Let’s get dressed and go down to the bar.”
“Why is that?” I ask, still floating in bliss.
“We have to name that drink,” he replies with a wicked smile.
***