Breathless for Him (Davison & Allegra) Read online

  Mrs. Berkeley extends her hand to me, which I take in mine. “Lovely to meet you, Allegra.”

  “Thank you. You too, ma’am.”

  She turns to her son, giving him a brief embrace and another peck on the cheek. “I’ll be in touch, darling.”

  “Okay, Mom. Have a good day.”

  We watch as the elevator door shuts, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 still hanging in the air. It was my mother’s favorite perfume as well.

  Before I know it, I’m in his arms. “You okay?”

  “Barely.” I laugh nervously. “I hope I passed.”

  “Why would you say that?” he asks, tilting his head at me. “She obviously saw the paper and wanted to make sure we were okay.”

  “Yeah, but maybe she was just making sure that I was good enough for you.”

  Davison shakes his head. “First of all, my mother isn’t like that. She’s not one of those snooty society types. I know she might dress like one of them, but she has a good heart. And second, you should know something else.”

  “What?”

  “In my whole life, she’s never done anything like that before. I mean, I’ve been photographed with other women, but she’s never shown up at my apartment to check up on me to make sure I was okay. That means that she thinks you’re somebody important in my life.”

  “And the fact that I was here? That doesn’t look bad?”

  “We’re adults, baby. And I think she knows I have sex. I am thirty-one years old, you know,” he says smiling, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

  I smile in return. “I just wish I weren’t wearing these the first time I meet your mother,” I reply, glancing down at his Harvard sweats.

  “You’re beautiful in anything you wear,” he says to me, cupping my face. “Or don’t wear, for that matter. Speaking of which, when I’m done with my calls, I’m meeting you in the bedroom.”

  “Let me finish my breakfast first. I’ll need the sustenance.”

  He swats me on my ass before going back to his office.

  Calm down, I tell myself. It’s just meeting the parents. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite the fact that I’m a native New Yorker, there are still many sections of my beloved city that I have never encountered before. Davison’s family home is in one of them.

  In the Sutton Place neighborhood of Manhattan at the end of East Fifty-Eighth Street sits a cluster of elegant town houses, known as Sutton Square. Across the street from them is a house, a true honest-to-goodness detached brick house, something that I rarely see in the city. As I discovered when the Maybach pulled up to it, it was the home of the Berkeley family.

  For the dinner with his parents, I’m wearing a cream silk tea-length dress, accentuated by a black lace Peter Pan collar and a thin black belt around my waist. With my black patent kitten heels, I step onto the black-and-white tiled floor of his family’s foyer.

  The space itself takes my breath away. A huge crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, with two long staircases that wind their way along the curved wall to the landing at the top.

  A man’s voice snaps me back to the present. “Good evening, sir.”

  I glance over to see a tall, thin white-haired man dressed in a black suit and tie with a white shirt hovering over Davison and me as we stand in the entryway. “Ames, for once and for all, you can call me Davison.”

  “Not in this lifetime, young man.”

  Davison smiles. “Fine. This is my girlfriend, Allegra Orsini.”

  Ames bows in my direction. “A pleasure, Miss Orsini. May I take your coat? Your parents are in the living room, sir.”

  Hanging on to my mother’s clutch and Davison’s hand like two lifelines, Davison steers me toward the next room, but stops suddenly.

  “Christ, Allegra, I’m going to need hand surgery,” he says, looking down at our interlocked fingers. “Please relax. I’ll be with you the entire time. Everything will be fine.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper sheepishly.

  I loosen my grip on his hand. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “You look beautiful, Venus.”

  I smile. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  When we walk in, I take in the elegance of the room, from the marble fireplace to the furniture upholstered in an understated chintz print. Mrs. Berkeley is sitting on one of the sofas, flipping through an issue of Town & Country. An elegant man whose gray hair matches his gray pin-striped suit is standing with his back to us at a window, talking into a cell phone. They don’t even notice our presence until Davison clears his throat.

  “We did get the correct night, didn’t we?”

  His mother looks up from her magazine. “Oh, of course, darling. Forgive my rudeness, Allegra.” She shouts to the man, “Hart, they’re here. Get off that damn phone already!”

  The man ends his call and walks toward Davison and me. He extends his hand in my direction, giving me a nod while simultaneously taking in my appearance. “Hartwell Berkeley, Davison’s father. You’re Miss Orsini,” he says in a way that makes me feel awkward. Not creeped out, but more like he’s checking me out to make sure I’m suitable.

  I shake his hand in return, while he addresses his son with a quick nod, “Davison.”

  “Dad,” he replies in acknowledgment.

  I silently take note of the lack of emotion between father and son.

  “It’s so lovely to see you again, Allegra. Please sit down,” Mrs. Berkeley says as an invitation.

  Mr. and Mrs. Berkeley sit on opposite ends of the sofa, while Davison pulls me toward the love seat. Ames enters a few seconds later.

  “Ah, yes, Ames. A G and T for me, and a Glenlivet neat for my husband. Davison and Allegra?” his mother asks.

  “Same as my dad for me, Ames, and a white wine for Allegra,” he says, looking over at me for confirmation.

  I nod absentmindedly at him because I can’t take my eyes off the painting over the mantel. It’s a Canaletto depicting the Rialto Bridge in Venice. My parents took me there when I was a little girl, and on my bookshelf at home, I have a photo of us standing on it. I’ve never seen a Canaletto outside a museum before, but then again, I’ve never known anyone who can afford to own a Canaletto.

  “You’re admiring the Canaletto, aren’t you?” his father inquires.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been to Venice.”

  “Recently, dear?” Mrs. Berkeley adds.

  “Um, no, ma’am. When I was a little girl. My parents took me.”

  “I adore Venice,” she says. “We always stay at the Danieli. Your family is Italian, correct?”

  “Yes. My father is from Milan, and my mother was from Naples.”

  His father makes a Hmm noise that sounds like a Really? Interesting acknowledgement of my statement. “Is your mother deceased, Miss Orsini?”

  “Dad,” Davison cautions him.

  “Yes, sir. She died when I was five,” I reply quickly.

  Even though she’s sitting across the room from me, when Mrs. Berkeley leans forward in her seat, I sense she is going to express a sincere thought. “My dear, I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t realize my knees are shaking until Davison places his right hand on my left knee and begins rubbing it to calm me down. I give him a quick nod in gratitude.

  Oh God, please don’t ask me how she died.

  At that minute, a miracle is delivered in the form of Ames carrying a tray of drinks. He distributes them, Davison’s mother leading us in a toast after he leaves the room. Before we can take a second sip, Ames returns to announce dinner is served.

  * * *

  As we make our way through our bowls of lobster bisque and entrees of grilled salmon, new potatoes, and a green salad with champagne dressing, there is a coldness in the room despite the central heat. It is palpable. His parents are sitting at either end of the long oval dining table, while Davison and I are in the middle across from each other. No one is speaking. It’s such an unnatural feeling for me. Whenever I’
m with my relatives in New York City or in Italy, you have to shout to be heard over the laughter and yelling.

  At one point, I look across at Davison, who glances up from his food. He gives me a quick smile and a shrug of his shoulders, as if he’s saying Welcome to my family, and then goes back to eating his fish. I just want to cry. This is breaking my heart.

  Someone finally says something, thank goodness.

  “So, Allegra,” Mrs. Berkeley directs to me, “Davison tells me you’re an opera singer.”

  I take a swallow of my wine. “Yes, ma’am. I’m in my last year at the Gotham Conservatory.”

  “Did you try for Juilliard?” his father cuts in.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Dad!” Davison admonishes him.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure him, even though I’m also seething inside. “I auditioned and I was accepted, but I couldn’t afford the tuition, even with scholarships.”

  “I see,” Mr. Berkeley replies, returning to his Scotch.

  “You should come with us one night to the Met, my dear. We have our own box,” his mother announces.

  I look at Davison, who suddenly seems fascinated by the pattern engraved on his Limoges dinner plate.

  I feign surprise at the news about their seats. “Oh, thank you so much, Mrs. Berkeley. I would love that. You’re so lucky.”

  She taps her index finger to her lips. “Hmm. You know, we do so much for the Met that I think we should do something for your school as well. I adore opera, especially anything Italian.”

  I smile. “As do I, ma’am.”

  “What do you think about having a benefit for the Gotham Conservatory, Hart? Here at the house,” she asks her husband.

  My eyes nearly pop out of my head. This is completely unexpected.

  “Whatever you want, Mona,” he mumbles under his breath.

  Davison speaks up, “That’s very generous of you, Mom. Allegra, what do you think?”

  I smiled widely. “I’m overwhelmed. That is so kind of you, Mrs. Berkeley. But only if you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  She waves her hand dismissively at me. “Nonsense. We have these small soirees for our favorite charities all the time. As long as you promise to sing for us.”

  Oh God. How can I possibly say no to her?

  “Oh, Mrs. Berkeley, I don’t think I should. I can help you organize it, but I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to sing.”

  For the first time that night, Davison appears to be genuinely happy and interested in something. “Of course you should sing. I haven’t heard you sing yet. Please, Allegra. For me.”

  I look at him and at his mother. Both of them are staring at me with such expectant faces.

  Okay, what could possibly happen? The people who come to these things are Upper East Side society types. I doubt any of them would know who I am. And I want to do this for both of them. And I am an aspiring opera singer after all, who, God willing, will perform one day in front of hundreds of people, so I need to get over this, and this will definitely help.

  “All right,” I give in. “I’ll sing something Italian for your mother.”

  She claps her hands together. “Excellent! I’ll call your director in the morning.”

  The sound of an antique chair creaking as it’s pushed back breaks our reverie. Davison’s father is standing at his seat.

  “Davison, would you join me in my study? I have some papers to review with you.”

  “Can it wait, Dad? We—”

  “Now!”

  Davison looks across at me with a slight smile, mouthing Be right back to me.

  Mrs. Berkeley sighs, watching her husband and son walk out of the dining room. “Oh dear. Goodness knows how long they’ll be. I should go tell the kitchen to wait until I tell them to serve dessert. I hate to leave you alone at the table.”

  “Please, go ahead. Don’t worry about me,” I reassure her.

  Once she leaves the room, I stay in my chair for a few minutes. Finding the silence in the room too oppressive, I grab my clutch and go in search of the nearest bathroom. I turn in the corridor, hoping I can find the toilet without having to ask someone. I walk past a door when loud voices sound from behind it.

  “I won’t tolerate this insubordinate behavior, Davison.”

  “Christ, Dad! ‘Insubordinate’? I’m not a damn private under your command. I’m your son.”

  “That’s right, and you seem to be forgetting that little fact. We have an image to protect. This has gotten too serious. I won’t have the heir to my family’s company tarnished by you gallivanting around Manhattan with some baker’s daughter.”

  “Her father is a butcher,” he counters furiously.

  “I don’t give a fuck! Why are you doing this? Seeing what it’s like dating beneath you just to piss me off? Slumming it just for a piece of tail?”

  “Don’t you dare talk about Allegra like that! If you ever—”

  I can hear laughter. “As if you could ever scare me with your threats. I’m warning you, Davison. End this now. Take Ashton back. Or else I’ll have the board remove you as CEO of Berkeley Holdings.”

  “You don’t have the votes.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You know what, Dad? I don’t give a shit. Remove me. I have my own goddamn money. I don’t need yours.”

  The sound of a door closing somewhere in the house snaps me back to my current position: eavesdropping on Davison and his father. I rush to the nearest door and step into the room, which turns out to be a guest toilet by the looks of it.

  I stand at the sink, gripping the counter tightly. My legs shake as I keep standing. Unable to keep myself upright, I sit down on the toilet lid, clenching my fists while taking deep breaths.

  Someone raps on the door.

  “Allegra, dear, are you ill?” his mother asks worriedly.

  I exhale the breath I was holding on to. “No, ma’am. I’m fine.”

  “Dessert is about to be served.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

  I stand up and step to the sink. I splash some cold water on my face to calm myself down and reapply my makeup, praying that this evening won’t last much longer.

  * * *

  I watch the East Side of Manhattan fly past us as the Maybach speeds down FDR Drive back to my apartment. Davison hasn’t said a word to me since we got in the car, but neither have I. He hasn’t even reached for my hand.

  I can’t even imagine how lonely his childhood was. He grew up in a huge, cold mansion, he has no siblings, he was shipped off to boarding school probably when he was still a little boy, and worst of all, he has a total asshole for a father.

  He’s told me why he likes being with me, that I’m different, that I don’t want anything from him. But I think there’s more to it. I think I bring him warmth and compassion and the ability for him to be himself.

  I love how he defended me to his father, and then when he told him off and stood up for himself, it showed me how strong and sure of himself he truly is. And it makes me think that I actually am an important part of his life now. That thought still frightens me because of his public persona and my reluctance to be thrust into the public eye again, but just for now, at this moment, he needs me more.

  I glance over at him. He’s still quiet, now looking out the window.

  I put my clutch aside and slide over to his side of the backseat. I startle him at first, but then when he realizes what I want to do, he smiles slightly and lets me settle into his lap.

  “Hey,” I whisper.

  “Hey, yourself, beautiful,” he murmurs, still smiling at me.

  “What are you thinking about in that handsome head of yours?”

  He runs his index finger down my cheek before he replies. “I was thinking how my father is a complete prick. I was thinking how glad I am my mother is a kind person with a good heart. And finally, I was thinking how grateful I am that you were the one working the coat check at Le Bistro the night I came t
o get my glove, because since that night, I’ve never been happier in my life.”

  I smile back at him, then I reach for the back of his neck and bring his mouth to mine. We kiss each other gently, but I need more. After the tumult of the night, I need to know that he really is mine. I need to claim him.

  I drop to my knees, the skirt of my dress gathered around my waist.

  “Umm, baby, is there a reason you’re on the floor of my car right now?” he asks amusedly.

  I reach for his belt and start to unbuckle it. “Shhh. Just sit back and relax.”

  “You really don’t have to—”

  “Shut up, Harvard. Just do as I say.”

  “Yes, Miss Orsini.” He grins mischievously.

  I smile slyly at him, then he leans back, his head tilted toward the ceiling, still grinning.

  After I unzip his trousers, he raises himself so I can pull them down without having to even ask him, followed by his briefs. His beautiful cock is lying against his belly, ready to be taken. I sit forward, caressing it, stroking it back and forth, back and forth.

  Davison begins humming in pleasure. “You’re so gentle, Allegra. Your hands are so soft. Feels so good,” he moans.

  Once I see the pre-cum appear at the tip, I lick it clean. The taste of it with Davison’s powerful male scent intoxicates me. My eyes are closed. I want to pleasure him so much.

  I take more of his cock into my mouth, swirling my tongue around it. His hands tangle in my hair, his moaning becoming even louder. “So good. God, that’s so good.”

  I curl my lips over my teeth, clamping them like a vise over his penis. I go faster, moving my mouth up and down, swallowing his cock as far as I can into my mouth without gagging.

  Once I know my limit, I speed up as his grunts become louder. With a few more strokes, his body begins to shudder, his legs stiffening and his hips thrust forward as if he’s feeding me his cock.

  A loud roar escapes Davison’s throat as a flood of cum spurts into my mouth. I swallow as quickly as I can, the warm liquid spilling down my throat. When it finally stops, I slowly slide his cock from my mouth and lick my lips clean. I sit back on my calves, catching my breath.