Breathless for Him (Davison & Allegra) Page 4

  “Because…” She looks at me knowingly.

  “Yes, that ‘because,’” I confirm for her.

  “Jesus, Alli, do you really think he’ll care about all that?”

  “He might not, but his family will. As will the tabloids. So this is a preemptive strike against shit hitting the fan.”

  “That’s all well and good, but what’s it been like seeing him every night?”

  I shake my head. “How do you think? Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Pure joy seeing him within a few feet of me, and utter hell knowing I can’t be with him, even though he said he broke up with Ashton because of me.”

  She frowns at my admission. “Wow. Does he talk to you? How does he act around you?”

  “Like the gentleman he is,” I tell her helplessly. “He pops by to make sure everything is running okay, and then I’ll see him across the room and he’s staring at me with this look that just kills me and makes me regret my decision.”

  Luciana pauses. “God, I can’t imagine…”

  “Yeah, it sucks,” I say resignedly.

  “And you’re sure…”

  I give her a firm look with my eyes. “Completely.”

  She rises to give me a hug. “You know I’m here for you, sweetie.”

  “Thanks. So if I need to call you at midnight after my shift is over to vent my frustration over my sound decision…”

  “I’ll have my phone on twenty-four/seven.”

  * * *

  I don’t see Davison when I walk into Le Bistro. I say hi to everyone and head for the coat-check room. After hanging up my coat and bag, I take the Lost and Found box down from the shelf to remove the coat-check numbers.

  A gorgeous single red rose is lying on top of the tickets, a BlackBerry, and a lone pearl earring.

  I gently put the box down and take the rose out. I lift it to my nose, inhaling its intoxicating scent. I study its rich red color, touching the petals with my fingertips so as not to jostle one loose.

  “Like it?” a voice asks deeply and huskily.

  My heartbeat turns rapid as I lose my capability to breathe. Once I take in a lungful of oxygen, I pivot to the open door, where he is standing, his eyes fixed on me. Dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and yellow tie accentuated by a platinum Rolex on his left wrist, Davison is the epitome of a man who exudes power wherever he goes.

  The energy between us is a live spark that makes my blood rush, heightening all of my senses. He makes me lose all rational thought when I’m around him. I want to know what his tongue feels like in my mouth, what his cock feels like when he’s thrusting into my pussy again and again and I’m begging him not to stop.

  But I made my decision.

  “I love it,” I tell him sincerely. “Thank you.”

  “I did some research.” He smirks. “Roses are one of the most popular flowers in Italy, and it’s associated with the Roman goddess of love, beauty, and sex.”

  “Venus.”

  “A gold star for you.” He smirks again.

  “I am Italian, after all,” I reply pointedly.

  He smiles and shakes his head, laughing slightly.

  “Well, thank you,” I murmur. “Again.”

  “My pleasure. Ready for tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “Good. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Davison leaves just as quickly as he appeared. I shut the lower half of the door, taking the rose in my hand and putting it in my bag.

  I close my eyes, mentally telling myself, Don’t encourage him. You made your decision. Now you have to live with it.

  * * *

  Just after midnight, I finish my shift, heading for the downtown 1 subway across the street. The temperature has dropped several degrees during the course of the night, and I burrow my chin into the warmth of my black wool peacoat, raising its collar around my face.

  I place one foot on the top step of the station entrance when I hear a voice call me.

  “Miss Orsini?”

  I turn to see an older man with white hair dressed in a dark suit, a chauffeur’s cap on his head.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Berkeley would like to give you a lift home.”

  I glance over and see the familiar Maybach logo on the back of the car parked at the curb. I didn’t see it at first with my attention focused on reaching the warmth of the subway station.

  “You’re Charles?” I ask him. “The same driver who took me home to Little Italy with Mr. Berkeley?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he smiles warmly, saluting me with a light tap to his hat with his index finger.

  “Is Mr. Berkeley inside?”

  Another voice pierces the air, sounding like it’s coming from inside a closed space. “For God’s sake, Allegra, will you please get in the car before you freeze to death?”

  My question asked and answered.

  I pause for a second, then step over to the car as Charles opens the door for me. I slide inside and sink into the heated leather seat. My head falls back as my body returns to a normal temperature.

  “Took you long enough.”

  I smirk and glance over at Davison. He looks annoyed.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Once you finished interrogating Charles.”

  “Well, you know, there are so many Maybachs in Manhattan, I just wanted to be sure it was the right one. Can’t be too safe these days,” I tease him. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He finally smiles at me, shaking his head again.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be punchy. It’s been a long night.”

  “Please. Don’t apologize for that. I wish you would tease me some more.”

  His comment stuns me. I have no idea how to take it, so I sit forward in my seat, stretching my legs. “Owww.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It was just a long night. My feet are killing me.”

  “Come here.”

  I look over. “What?”

  He flips up the seat console between us and leans down, pulling my left leg toward him. My body shifts as he brings up the right one as well. I’m now fully lying across the seat horizontally, my head propped up by the armrest. My body is tingling with anticipation.

  “What are you doing?”

  Davison takes off my winter boots one by one and drops them onto the floor.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Before I know what’s happening, he begins to rub my feet, starting with my toes all the way down to the heels. I can’t help but smile as he continues with an intense look on his face, as if he’s making sure that every nerve is relaxed. I’m sure Harvard doesn’t offer a course in reflexology, but wherever he learned to do this and on whomever he chose to practice, I honestly don’t care at this point. Everything he is doing at this moment is pure nirvana.

  The warmth of the seat eases me into a lambent state. All of my muscles are slowly becoming looser; my body is turning into liquid jelly.

  With each stroke, I become more aroused. My thighs soften with each rub from his hands, my panties soaking with desire. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep me from making any provocative noises that would arouse him. I’m just grateful that I’m not wearing a skirt. The temptation of taking his hand and placing it on the apex of my thighs for him to explore there would have been too great.

  I stare at him, his jaw clenched in concentration on what he’s doing.

  I know I told myself that I would stay away from him, but I find it incredibly futile. When he told me about liking me for not wanting anything from him, it moved me. He arouses me, and the fact that I can do the same to him gives me such self-confidence, something that I only find when I’m singing. The more I get to know him, the more I think he just wants someone to like him for him, and not how much money he has or who his family is. Maybe the feeling I had when I saw him with Ashton in those pictures in the tabloids wasn’t off base at all. Maybe he really was miserable with her. But are those r
easons good enough to make me want to be with him, knowing I’ll be thrust back into the public eye?

  I don’t even hear him until he repeats the question.

  “How did you become interested in opera?”

  “When I was growing up, my parents listened to the Met opera broadcasts on the radio. It became part of our weekend routine. Saturdays at home listening to the opera, Sunday at church.” I smile, recalling my mother joyfully singing along with the radio and with the church choir. “Opera is the other religion in my house.”

  “How long has your father been a butcher?”

  “Since before I was born. When he immigrated from Milan in the sixties, he settled in Little Italy and became an apprentice to the original owner. When the owner died, he took it over, and the rest is history. Then he met my mother and they married. She was from Naples.”

  “Was?”

  Shit.

  “Yes,” I whisper, turning my head so he can’t see my eyes.

  “How old were you when she died?” he asks quietly.

  “I was five.”

  “How did—”

  “Davison, I don’t talk about it,” I tell him firmly, still looking away.

  He pauses, looking down at me. He stops massaging me for a second and takes my left hand, gripping it tightly. “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

  “It’s all right.” I nod and shut my eyes.

  As the car speeds down West Street, I feel every bump and pothole hit the chassis of the car under my back. Davison resumes massaging my feet. The more he does, the more he and I become relaxed. Very relaxed, to the point where his hands begin to travel from my feet to my calves. His hands never stop. Back and forth, back and forth.

  Without warning, the car comes to a halt. I would’ve fallen to the floor had Davison not grabbed for my right side.

  I sit up. “I guess we’re here,” I announce in a slightly disappointed tone.

  As I reach for my boots, I notice Davison adjust himself. I look down at the floor so he can’t see my eyes and mouth open wide at the sight of seeing the huge bulge in his pants. Then I smile at the thought of him wanting me as much as I want him.

  Thank God it’s not just me.

  Like he had the previous time, he gets out, goes to my side of the car, and opens the door for me, putting out his hand to help me out. We stare at each other not saying a word. We don’t need to speak.

  Davison lifts his hands to caress my face with his fingertips. I shut my eyes, softening from his touch. He then wraps his hands around the nape of my neck.

  “Allegra,” he whispers, his breath circling my ear.

  Suddenly, with a low growl, his mouth is clamped over my lips, his tongue seeking mine. I gasp before I open my mouth, greedily accepting what he is offering me. He pulls me back into the wall of my building as our tongues tangle, his hot breath exhaling from his nose onto my face. We moan in tandem, finally releasing the desire we have both felt for so long. My hands run through his soft, silky hair, until I reach around for the back of his neck, pulling him into me as close as I can.

  I want him. God help me, I want him so damn much.

  A passing car honks as someone yells out from it with a cackle, “Get a room!”

  The moment effectively broken, we start laughing helplessly. We pull away from each other, but still inches from each other’s faces, holding on to each other and panting for fresh oxygen.

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he asks, my face between his hands, a huge smile on his face.

  “As long as I have,” I confess, smiling right back at him. “It’s late. I think I’d better go in.”

  He nods. “Yes, I guess you should, as much as I don’t want you to.”

  He pulls me in and softly kisses me on the lips. “Good night, Venus. My goddess of love, sex, and beauty. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” I sigh contentedly.

  I step into the lobby of my apartment building, shutting the door behind me, leaning against it.

  I shut my eyes in frustration, angry at myself. “Fuck.”

  Why did I let that happen?

  Because I wanted it. I wanted him. So badly.

  But I can’t let it happen again, no matter what I feel for him.

  * * *

  “Davison, are you crazy?”

  “We know who she is. Wanna guess?”

  “Not the best choice, dude. I’d think again if I were you.”

  “She’s got a past, man. Walk away now.”

  Flashbulbs of blinding light attack my eyes, my hand tightly gripping his. A huge pack of paparazzi are shouting vile things at us as we’re walking down Fifth Avenue.

  Suddenly, my hand is empty, a strong breeze blows across my palm where Davison’s hand once held mine.

  I yell out, “Davison? Davison, where are you?”

  The paps are descending on me like hungry vultures. I drop to the ground, curling my body into itself. I’m crying so hard, my body shaking from the wracking sobs.

  “Don’t leave me! Davison, come back!”

  * * *

  I wake with a start, shooting up from where I was lying in my bed. My heart won’t slow down. I put my hand over my chest, as if that will do anything to slow down my heartbeat.

  I start breathing deeply, mentally willing myself to calm down. I grab the ends of my sheet, twisting them in my hands to give myself support.

  It feels like it’s been eons when my heartbeat finally regulates. I reach for my water bottle and take a few long gulps for my parched throat.

  I lie back down, my eyes wide open.

  I’m playing with fire and I know it. But damn it, I want to allow myself this. Being with him. Just to finally know what it feels like to be with someone who makes me forget my past, who actually wants to be with me, and who doesn’t care if I’m a butcher’s daughter.

  Deep down, I know the obvious truth. It’s still playing with fire.

  Chapter Six

  From that night on, Davison and I follow the same routine when I’m working at the restaurant. After my shift, I walk across Broadway to where the Maybach is parked at the curb near Lincoln Center. Charles waits by the car to open the door for me, with Davison already in his seat. I slide in, take off my coat and shoes, and lie down across the backseat, the console already in its nook, nothing to separate me from him.

  It’s true that we live in opposing worlds—moneyed versus working-class, Upper East Side versus Little Italy. But as intimidating and dominant as he is, he brings me comfort. I enjoy being with him. I find his honesty refreshing and touching, imagining how difficult it must be for someone like him to not feel like he’s being constantly being taken advantage of.

  During the drive to my house, we usually talk about our day, the people we encountered in the restaurant that night. He asks about my classes. But I still haven’t asked him about his own life for two reasons. The press covers his life on a regular basis, so there’s really not much to know in general. But the more important reason is I don’t want to know. I know whatever this thing we have is, it’s fleeting, and I just want to enjoy it for what it is. I don’t want to get invested in him, to protect both myself and him from being exposed to my darkest secrets.

  However, there is one question I’m dying to ask him, and a week before Thanksgiving, I finally find the nerve to do it.

  We’re just starting the drive down Ninth Avenue, my feet in Davison’s hands.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay, Harvard, give it up.”

  “And what is it that you’d like me to give up?”

  “How you learned to give such amazing, toe-curling foot massages.”

  He grins slyly as he shakes his head. “Sorry. That’s classified information.”

  “Ugh. You’re infuriating.” I roll my eyes at him and sigh in frustration.

  He lets out a deep laugh as he keeps massaging my heels. I close my eyes. When I open them again a few minutes later, he has a seri
ous look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He puts my feet down in his lap, staring at them, caressing them.

  “I’m leaving for Shanghai tomorrow. On business.”

  The high I’m on from the massage plummets.

  So that wasn’t hearsay. Those two men who were talking about him when I returned their coats at the restaurant weren’t wrong.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A few days. I want to be back before Thanksgiving.”

  “I see.”

  “But Charles will still take you home after work.”

  “He doesn’t have to.”

  “Yes, he does,” his voice rumbles. He pauses. “Will you miss me?”

  I answer as passively as I can. “No.”

  “You need to work on your poker face, baby. I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, it’s true,” I insist.

  “The hell it is.”

  Without warning, Davison yanks me up across the seat, positioning me on his lap, my knees straddling him. His eyes are fixed on mine, ablaze with fury. His hands roughly grip my hips, pulling me as closely to him as he can.

  I glance back behind me.

  “Don’t worry. That partition is always closed now.”

  Stretched across his muscular thighs, I brace my hands on his own, breathing faster, nervous to see what he does next. I can feel the bulge of his hard cock hidden under his suit, rubbing against my pants. I can’t look away from his eyes, mesmerized by the severity in them.

  “Ever since I heard you humming that aria, and then when you finally turned around…I can’t explain the effect you have on me. I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I dream you.”

  My heart begins to beat harder, pounding against my chest. Whatever I expected him to say, that’s not even close to the reality.

  “Davison…”

  With a growl, he pulls my face to his, crushing his lips over mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth, desperate for entry. I accept him hungrily, dying to taste him, to feel his guttural moans vibrating against my chest when he is savoring my tongue in his mouth. With his left arm diagonally pressing across my back and his hand on my shoulder blade, he pins me tight into his chest, hard and solid against my curves.

  We begin to devour each other. I want him so fucking much. My hands coil around his neck, one fisted in his hair, the other around his shirt collar. The taste of him is pure ecstasy for my mouth. I can’t stop, and neither can he.