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 largerug 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.