Crazy for Him Page 7

  “I’m here, my love,” he says to comfort me, taking my hand.

  I start to cry. “Tomas, I didn’t mean it. I was joking. I want our babies. I don’t care anymore. I just want them to be okay.”

  He leans in closer to me, his forehead pressing mine. “I know you were joking. It’s going to be fine.”

  “Okay, Luciana, here we go,” Dr. Avery announces from behind the drape.

  Thanks to the epidural, I don’t feel any pain. Just something being dragged across my belly, then pulling. Lots of pulling.

  “And here’s baby girl number one!” she shouts.

  Then the loud cries of our baby fill the room, and Tomas and I start to cry with her.

  “Let me see!” I shout.

  Tomas is now standing. “She’s beautiful,” he whispers breathlessly, as if he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

  A nurse brings her over and gently places her on my chest. “Hi, gorgeous,” I cry, holding my head up so I can kiss her and Tomas can take a quick picture with his phone of baby and me and then the three of us.

  Just as quickly as she’s taken away, Dr. Avery announces, “Okay, here’s baby number two! Another beauty!”

  And another set of crying bounces off the tiled walls of the OR. “Another girl,” Tomas says as he kisses my forehead.

  Our second daughter is placed into his arms. He eases closer to me so I can see her and kiss her again just like I did her sister. Tomas takes another round of photos, and Baby One is brought back over so Tomas can hold both, leaning into me with them so a nurse can take a picture of my new family altogether as one.

  The nurse then puts down Tomas’s phone and carefully takes our daughters from his arms with another nurse’s help. “Let’s get them cleaned up. I promise you’ll see them very soon.”

  “Everything looks good, Luciana,” Dr. Avery’s voice informs me. “I see lots of babies in your future.”

  I know Tomas is smiling behind his mask, his eyes wet with emotion. “Do you hear that, darling? Lots of babies.”

  Tears stream down my face with no signs of stopping. “I can’t wait.”

  EPILOGUE

  Northern Italy

  Present day

  Tomas looks into the rearview mirror. I know he’s looking at the twins. “And they really are okay.”

  I smile, checking on them myself. “They’re perfect. Crazy but perfect.”

  He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Just like us.”

  “It’s hereditary.”

  My husband lets out a laugh when something catches his eye. “Holiday Inn in ten kilometers.”

  I glance out the window and sure enough, there’s a sign for a Holiday Inn with its familiar logo. “Oh, thank God,” I exhale.

  On the outskirts of Turin, we finally exit and pull up to the motel. Tomas pops out to ask about a vacancy. I keep my eyes on him, and when he finally turns around, he signals to me with a thumbs-up. “Yes!” I whisper triumphantly to myself, my tired head falling back onto the headrest.

  I watch as he pulls out his wallet and passport, tucks everything into his back pocket, and comes back out with a key card, handing it to me. We drive the car to a space just outside our ground-floor room and carry the girls in, laying them down on one of the double beds. Tomas heads back out to collect our bags and lock the car.

  I collapse onto the other bed, exhaling a deep breath. I hear the door open, glancing over as Tomas carries in our luggage. I give out a huge yawn. “I’m so exhausted.”

  Tomas settles in next to me. “We should think about dinner,” my husband reminds me.

  “Don’t worry. Allegra’s father loaded us up with leftovers before we left. We can heat them up in the microwave. Thank God these rooms have kitchenettes.” I take a whiff of my clothes. “Ugh. I need a shower.”

  I grab my toiletries from my suitcase and head into the bathroom. I strip off my clothes and turn on the shower. The hot water cascades down my body, instantly relaxing me.

  The sound of the shower curtain screeching against the metal rod startles me. Tomas stands on the bath mat totally naked. “Want some company?”

  “What about the girls?”

  “I locked the door with the deadbolt and they’re sound asleep.”

  I grab him by the hand and pull him in. “Works for me.”

  Our mouths slam together, tongues tangling. Tomas pushes me into the wall, our arms wrapping tightly around each other. I whimper helplessly as his grunts echo off the tiles.

  “More,” I beg him when I pull away for a split second. “God, more, please.”

  “Anything for you, my love,” Tomas replies roughly.

  “The girls might wake up any minute,” I remind him, which really means Get your rock-hard cock into me tout de suite!

  “I’m on it.”

  I smile to myself at the sound of Tomas using a typical American idiom. He’s come so far, this amazing man of mine who I fall more in love with every day.

  Without warning, my head snaps back when he thrusts himself inside me. He starts pumping me with such force that I have to hold my head carefully so it doesn’t bang into the tiled wall. But then, I start not caring about the pain because he shifts direction and his cock is now rubbing my clit.

  I start moaning loudly. “That’s it, baby. Don’t stop. Fuck, don’t stop.”

  I love this man so much. He owns my fucking heart. He owns my fucking soul. After all the shit I went through with my Loser List of guys, I finally found a man. A true man who worships me but doesn’t take my crap. Who knows every quirk of mine and doesn’t run away screaming from me. Who loves my curves and tells me I’m beautiful every day.

  My inner muscles grab hold of his dick like a vise and I bear down, milking it. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me into the cool tiles.

  “Look at me,” he commands.

  I open my eyes and stare into his brilliant sapphire ones that are searing mine. We say nothing to each other because no words are necessary. I see his love for me, his hunger for me that I know are reciprocated in mine.

  Without warning, he grabs my ass and hoists me into his arms. I coil my legs around his muscled torso, locking my ankles together. I cry out as he sinks himself deeper into me, using the wall as support. With each thrust, my entire body shifts up and down along the wall. The back of my head senses every crack and crevice of the tiles behind it. Tomas’s grunts grow louder, more animalistic, which only makes me wetter.

  I am cresting the wave. His cock rubs my clit once, twice, and then I scream out in such pure release, the orgasm taking hold of me over as I ride it, my body vibrating from the sensation. With one last thrust, Tomas comes, his entire body shuddering. His head falls back and I can see the veins on his neck bulging, so pronounced against his flesh.

  He slowly releases me from his grip, gently placing me back standing onto the floor of the tub. I loosely hold my arms around his waist. “I needed that,” I pant into his neck.

  “We both did,” Tomas mumbles into my ear.

  “Agreed.” I pull back and run my hands over his broad chest. “I still love The Wall.”

  We grin at each other, so thoroughly sated, glowing from the moment…

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Mommy! Are you okay? I heard you shouting. I’m hungry! And Mimi is playing with your makeup,” Marika, our youngest child by two minutes, informs us.

  I can feel Tomas’s body shaking from laughter, just like mine is doing. “Okay, honey, we’ll be right out,” I call out to her.

  “We need to do that more often,” Tomas insists.

  “It’s not about quantity, Prague Boy. It’s about quality,” I counter.

  “I would disagree.”

  “That’s because you’re a man, baby. Now, let’s get out there before Marika uses my credit card to order a pizza.”

  “She’s only five,” he reminds me as he quickly ducks his head under the water to wet his hair.

  “That kid is smart as
a whip. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  He gives me a quick peck on the lips. “I know. And Mimi would just tell her to call room service.”

  I laugh so hard. “They’re amazing, aren’t they?”

  A solemn look crosses his face. “Thank you, Luciana.”

  I caress his face with my fingertips. “For what?”

  “For giving me another chance. And for our beautiful girls. Sometimes I feel guilty that you gave up your dream of being an opera singer for our family, and—”

  I clamp my hand over his mouth. “I gave up nothing. This is the dream I never knew I wanted. You, the girls, traveling the world with you, watching you sing your heart out. I’m so proud to be Mrs. Tomas Novotny. Plus, I can never leave your side because otherwise some opera groupie will throw herself at you and I’ll be forced to cut a bitch.”

  He grin widely back at me. “You are such a New Yorker, my love.”

  “That’ll never change. Now get your ass out there before they start playing around with the remote and find the porn channels.”

  My husband kisses me quickly and steps out of the shower. I quickly snatch the curtain back. “Hey, baby…”

  Tomas turns back to me, his broad, muscled chest still glistening wet from the shower. “Yes?” he asks.

  “Thank you for being my dream come true.”

  He kisses me one last time. “My pleasure.”

  I watch as he heads for the door wearing only his boxers, glancing back at me to give me a quick wink.

  I start to lather my hair with shampoo as I listen to my husband arguing with our children.

  I smile to myself.

  I fucking love my life.

  Please see the next page for an excerpt from Sofia Tate’s debut novel and find out how Davison and Allegra’s journey began.

  Breathless for Him

  Available Now!

  Chapter One

  Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  I watch as the last of the patrons don their camel-hair coats and calf-length sable furs. Before they leave, the owner makes sure to shake each of their hands. As they exit, the black velvet curtain that covers the front door swishes like a whisper against the marble floor, shielding the interior of the restaurant from the chilly November air. They shuffle their way out to begin the search for their town cars, a fleet of which stand outside on Broadway, engines idling, waiting to be claimed.

  I’m standing inside my work space, which happens to be the coat-check room of Le Bistro, a restaurant that is an institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Like Sardi’s in the Theater District, Le Bistro is its equivalent, except it serves the opera buffs, cineastes, and ballet lovers of Lincoln Center. Its owner is Elias Crawford, one of New York City’s most well-known restaurateurs, known for his charm, sophistication, and meticulous attention to detail.

  Dressed in my standard uniform of a white long-sleeved blouse with French cuffs, black trousers, and black ballet flats, my dark brown hair done up in its usual chignon, I turn and take in my surroundings. Technically, my work space is a closet, lined with clothing rods for coats and jackets and shelves for handbags and briefcases. Since I began working there, I have checked an eclectic collection of items, from a famous rock star’s red leather jacket pockmarked with cigarette burns to a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk that took up most of the traffic pattern.

  Lola, the statuesque hostess, pokes her head in the door. “We’re done, Allegra. You can start closing up.”

  I nod. I begin to wrap the plastic check numbers in an elastic band, stowing them into the shoe box that I use as a Lost and Found. I count my tips and tuck them into my purse.

  As I take one last survey of the room, I spot two objects on the floor. One is a black-and-white silk scarf, the name “Hermès” imprinted in the lower right-hand corner.

  The other is a man’s driving glove, brown lambskin, cashmere-lined, with initials stitched on the inseam—DCB.

  I stow both items in my Lost and Found shoe box. Perhaps the owners will collect them in the next few days.

  * * *

  “Did you hear about Davison’s latest venture? He’s flying to China to check out some new company that’s doing amazing stuff with voice technology.”

  “Ha! ‘Voice technology,’ my ass! The only voice he’s concerned about getting away from belongs to that shrew girlfriend of his, Ashton. She’s got a hot body, but she’s a total bitch—at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  That’s what gossip is to me. Hearsay. It’s common for someone to approach me while I’m working, offering me monetary compensation for any kernel of gossip that involves a celebrity. Because of its trendy status and location, Le Bistro attracts everyone from politicians to film stars to opera divas, basically anyone who’s ever appeared in Vanity Fair. I knew since I began working here six months ago that if someone really wanted the truth about a scandal, the people to eavesdrop on were the doctors and lawyers who came into the restaurant. But I treat my place of work as a confessional; whatever I overhear will never be passed on to a third party.

  The two men retrieving their coats are discussing the couple whose names and faces were featured almost every day on Page Six—Davison Cabot Berkeley, the Manhattan billionaire and heir to the Berkeley Holdings fortune, and Ashton Lane Canterbury, the heiress of the Canterbury family. Since they’re the “it couple” of Manhattan, their histories are well known thanks to the tabloids and business pages. They’re childhood friends. He has the proper pedigree: age thirty-one, prepped at Exeter, undergrad and MBA from Harvard, while she went to Miss Porter’s and Wellesley.

  A match made in WASP heaven.

  It’s funny, though, because every time I see their photo in the paper, she always looks much happier than he does, as if he would rather be anyplace else than with her. My life is far removed from the circles they travel in, but seeing such a handsome man so miserable with the woman he supposedly loves, I wonder if he is truly in love with her. I’m twenty-four, a butcher’s daughter, but I don’t envy their social or financial status in society.

  I’m putting away the men’s tips in my purse when a sharp knock on the flat ledge of the coat-check room’s half door brings me back to the present moment.

  “Excuse me? Are you working or not?”

  At the door stands a tall woman with platinum-blonde hair that cascades down the back of her fur coat, a black crocodile Birkin hanging in the crook of her elbow.

  “I said, did you happen to find a black-and-white Hermès scarf two nights ago?” her voice shrills above the cacophony of the restaurant. Her thin, oval-shaped face holds an exasperated look, while her blue eyes burn my face like a set of lasers.

  “I did. Just a moment, I’ll retrieve it for you.”

  As I pull out the Lost and Found box, I hear the woman speaking to her female entourage. “Oh my God, Davis is the biggest nerd. He never wants to go out. All he wants to do is stay home and read books or watch movies. He’s so boring.” She sighs. “But at least we’re going away for the holidays to his family’s chalet in Gstaad. I can’t wait to see his new jet. We have invitations to so many parties when we’re there.”

  Suddenly, I know whose scarf I’m holding. It belongs to the shrew herself, Ashton Canterbury.

  Ashton’s friends giggle in enchantment over the gilded life she is supposedly leading.

  I walk back to Ashton with scarf in hand. I observe her, concluding that the tabloid photos actually make her look better than she does in person.

  “Took you long enough,” she huffs. “I hope nothing’s happened to it.”

  “It’s in pristine condition, madam. I kept it safe,” I reassure her.

  “Yes, well, it looks fine. Let’s go, girls.”

  The lack of a gratuity from her does not come as a surprise to me.

  * * *

  “O mio babbino caro?”

  Two days later during the lunch service, I’m bent over picking some dust off the floor humming the ari
a to myself when a deep male voice interrupts me.

  I’m still distracted when I reply to the man. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “My family has a private box at the Met.”

  When I stand up and turn to the door, I see in front of me what no photo could ever do any justice, now that Davison Cabot Berkeley is standing in front of me. He has to be over six feet tall, with dark brown wavy hair that borders on black. His eyes are deep green with flecks of amber in them. On any other man, his lips would look odd because of their lush shape, but on his chiseled face, they are perfectly suited.

  He’s dressed in a navy-blue wool coat, open to reveal underneath it a dark gray pin-striped suit and tie, accentuated by a button-down shirt in a lighter palette. A cashmere scarf the same shade as his coat is tied around his neck.

  His eyes meet my dark brown ones, and in a flash, my throat goes dry. Shivers run up and down my arms. My pulse increases because of the way he stares at me. His head rears back slightly, and he takes in a deep breath through his aquiline nose. But it’s the intensity of his eyes that paralyzes me. They sear me, as if they have the ability to read my inner thoughts without having to speak a word.

  After a few seconds that seemed more like a full minute, I clear my throat. “You’re very fortunate. May I be of service, sir?”

  A small grin appears on his face. “Yes. I seem to have misplaced a glove. By any chance, would you happen to have found it?”

  “I believe so. Could you describe it?”

  “Brown driving glove, cashmere lined. My initials are on it. DCB. Davison Cabot Berkeley.”

  The sound of his voice warms my body, as if it were a cashmere blanket that tightly wraps around me. When he speaks, he speaks deeply, but it’s more like a rumble, as if something is inside him on the verge of erupting. Even though he’s only spoken a few words to me, I have a vision of him commanding others with that voice, and how intimidated I would feel, which is actually beginning to happen to me at that precise moment.

  All I can do is nod my head. “Yes. I have it. I’ll be right back.”