Authors: Astrid Lee Donovan
Chapter Five
The rays of the morning sun served to pull Nicole from the depths of a luxurious slumber awakening her from a dream of an evening as she reclined easy in the arms of her lover.
Shifting her head to gaze upon the whole of his bronzed, angelic beauty, she raised her fingers to touch and outline his carved cheekbones and full, moist lips; smiling as his wide dark eyes flew open to sear her with a loving look.
“So it wasn’t a dream,” he whispered, adding as he flicked forth a sexy tongue to lap her agile finger. “You really are mine now.”
Nicole nodded.
“Last night was better than a dream,” she affirmed, adding as she bit her lip, “I’m just not sure, though, if the dream can continue. I’m sorry, babe, but you heard the way your guitarist talked to me.”
Spyder shook his head.
“If he says one more rude word to you,” he vowed, “I swear to you that he’s out of the band.”
Nicole smiled, but only briefly.
“Thanks for that, baby,” she praised with a nod, “but realistically, you won’t be able to throw out every fellow musician, every fan, and—when the time comes—every snarky music journalist who pokes fun at the fat, ordinary looking girlfriend. I’m a strong woman, sure enough, but I’m not altogether certain that I want to live with that sort of constant scrutiny.”
Spyder thought a moment, then nodded.
“Well, do you think that you might want to live with a regular diet of constant and very satisfying sex,” he asked her, tone matter of fact, “with all of your fantasies and desires fulfilled? And if you like, we could get started on this rigorous schedule of passionate lovemaking. Here. And now.”
Soon a resigned and highly aroused Nicole sank deep into her lover’s arms; losing herself once again in a timeless embrace as they kissed and cuddled in the light of sweet sunshine.
Their arms and legs entangled as they rolled free and wild across the day bed; their mouths colliding and their tongues entwined as her bare breasts crushed his firm, hard chest.
Almost immediately his trim, firm hips gyrated hard and shameless against her own; and even as his long, stiff member flew upward to grace her wet femininity, he cradled her back with a caressing hand—his free hand, meanwhile, disappeared between her legs to caress and open her feminine folds.
Nicole gasped outright as her lover touched and rubbed her enflamed nub; stroking and kneading as he whispered in her ear, “Do allow me to demonstrate, my lady, just why you belong in my arms—and remind you of just what it’s like to be loved by a rocker.”
With these words he pulled her closer than close and surged his magnificent cock to the depths of her soaking wet pussy, their sweat lined bodies writhing and slithering against one another as he danced inside her.
“I love you,” the couple released in unison and on a heavenly whisper; throwing themselves against each other as their lips sealed in a binding kiss.
Spyder continued to knead Nicole’s throbbing clit as waves of pure erotic sensation surged upward to kiss every fiber of her being, causing her to squirm against him as he surged deeper still within her.
Finally and with a resounding kiss the couple came together, their joined bodies exploding in the heat of an incredible mutual orgasm.
Pitching his head back, Spyder whipped his hair gently across Nicole’s breasts as he parted his full, moist lips; letting loose with yet another sonorous, deep-voiced serenade.
And to the ears of a besotted Nicole, this ditty sounded like a surefire hit.
THE END
PASSION IN ITALY
Alpha Male Romance
Chapter One
The fantasy that had filled her dreams for so long was about to become a radiant reality.
Since the time of her childhood, 30-year-old Naomi Baker had dreamed of visiting the exotic, romantic land called Italy.
As a young girl she’d listened enrapt as her beloved Aunt Mamie, a true woman of the world, had told her at length about her own travels to this jewel of the Mediterranean; emphasizing the beauty, history and culture of the European country where their family claimed several ancestors.
“I’m one part African, one part Italian, one part American,” she often told people, adding with the toss of her shoulder length dreads, “And all parts absolutely and apologetically ornery.”
In college she had studied international culture, seeing as she did endless photos and slideshows that depicted even more vividly the glories of Italy - the majesty and miracle that was the city of Rome; the crystalline waters of Venice and the historical Coliseum. She often lost herself in these timeless images, which seemed to summon and call out to her.
“Well not literally,” she mused with a smirk. “That’d just be weird. Let’s just say that looking at those images really, really made me want to visit Italy.”
Soon after graduation she’d accepted a position as a docent at Even Littler Italy, a museum and bistro located—conveniently and appropriately, she supposed—in the Little Italy district of New York.
And as much as she enjoyed maintaining and presenting exhibits of photos, posters, scale models, and audio visual presentations that dealt with various aspects of Italian life and culture, the job only made her more eager and anxious to experience a real life Italian adventure.
Then finally, the day arrived; the time when she realized that she had saved up the money and the vacation time to plan a luxurious one-week sojourn in the land of her fantasy.
“See ya, all!” she declared at one point, and with a hearty salute. “I am off to Italia!”
“Later, y’all. I’m headed back to Italy.”
When Naomi finally arrived at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, a grand total of 10 hours after she’d taken flight from JFK in NYC, she once again felt entranced in something of a dreamlike state; one very different from the vibrant rhapsody that had inspired her to make this trip in the first place.
Indeed, the only thing she dreamt of at that moment was a bed in which to dream. And collapse. And check out from any and all planes of reality as she tried to deal with the massive, near debilitating case of jet lag that threatened to knock her off her feet.
Dressed that day in a sweater and jeans that covered and flattered her rubenesque curves, she felt hotter than hot and just a bit sticky as she dragged her luggage through the airport’s airy, silvery corridors; in the process taking a mental catalogue of everything that she’d brought along for the trip.
Then she made another, far longer list of everything that she’d neglected to bring for the trip.
“Just how in the blazes do you ask, ‘Where can I buy toothpaste and antacid tablets?’ in Italian?” she pondered, adding with a noncommittal shrug, “The moment I get to my hotel room, I’ll look it up in my English to Italian translation guide -unless, of course, I left the guide behind at home. Oh, Jesus. I think I did.”
She shook her head with a sigh as she at least tried to conjure the Italian word for “Taxi!”; the word that would get her to the hotel where she had booked a suite for the week—and that, from what she understood, featured a bed where she could collapse and relax.
“What a novel feature for a hotel suite,” she snorted, finally clearing the expansive front entrance of Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. “I guess some things are universal.”
Her mood shifted the moment that she stepped outside; crossing the portal into the pure nature made glory that illuminated and defined the Roman landscape.
Immediately she felt warmed by the golden, radiant sun that lent light and bounty to this timeless landscape, which featured a hilly, mountain terrain that—in the illustrious city of Rome—bordered a unique cityscape featuring a diverse menagerie of ultra-modern office buildings and flawlessly preserved historical landmarks.
All of this beauty served as a glowing reminder of why she’d made that long, long (did she happen to mention it was long?) journey to the land of dreams. Jet lagged or otherwise.
“Yep,” she concluded, regaining the smile that had managed to elude her for the past 10 hours. “This is the place.”
And just then, she remembered the Italian word for taxi.
“Taxi!” she just barely managed between the pure peals of self-depreciating laughter that nearly claimed her whole.
This positive mood seemed reinforced moments later, as her driver delivered her to the crystalline, brass knobbed doors that fronted the Villagio; the four star hotel that bore a closer resemblance to an Italian villa.
A lush pastiche of ivory, marble textured stone complete with arched windows kissed with stained glass, sloping roofs, and an overall look that bespoke and harkened the majesty of the old world, the hotel seemed like something from another time.
And if its stately arched entrance seemed like a portal to another place and era, the lobby likened the setting of countless romance novels that claimed Italy as its primary setting; tomes she’d read only for research purposes, of course.
Overlooked by a candle lined brass chandelier that illuminated the room beneath, the lobby area came bordered with cream hued walls topped by elegant crown moldings and lined by both brass bordered antique mirrors and examples of fine Italian artwork; including a high quality print of the one and only Mona Lisa.
“No wonder the chicksta grinned so much all the blasted time,” she mused, her gaze continuing to devour her new surroundings in a near ravenous manner. “She resides in style.”
In the corner of the lobby stood a stone cast fireplace that came complete with scrolled engravings and a blazing fire within; a blaze that lent a radiant cast to the brilliant red jacquard chairs that flanked this beautiful luminary.
“And those chairs even have clawed feet,” she said aloud. “Christ. I never thought that actual real life furniture came with clawed feet included. I’m impressed!”
She started as these absently spoken words were met with a deep, sonorous round of smooth masculine laughter; one that resounded from just beside her as she tore her gaze from the chair.
Within moments this gaze landed on yet another beautiful vision; this one boasting radiance that far surpassed anything and everything she’d seen before it.
The man before her stood tall and statuesque beside the fireplace; and although dressed in a sharp cut suit resplendent in a tone of ruby red velvet, his bronzed muscularity managing to dwarf his delicate, ethereal surroundings.
“Of course, he just happens to be pretty darned ethereal himself,” she mused, grinning in spite of herself as she answered in silence—thankfully, “They sure do grow ‘em good over here.”
Indeed, the man before her boasted a radiant silken fall of jet-black hair that flowed nearly to his waist; framing a bronzed, chiseled face that featured full, moist lips, carved cheekbones, a noble cleft chin, and wide dark eyes.
Eyes that now probed her with an intense stare as he chuckled outright at her unique use of verbiage.
“Clawed feet,” he repeated, releasing his words in a thick Italian accent that sent quivers down her spine.
Naomi grinned.
“Yeah, aren’t they cool?” she asked, making a broad gesture toward the engraved accents that defined and finished the chairs before them.
She arched her eyebrows as the man before her made no verbal response to her question; only regarded her with an intense, unyielding gaze and a warm, sensual smile.
As she continued to drink in his surreal masculine beauty and the warm aura of mystery inherent in his eyes, Naomi felt at once unsettled, intrigued…and just a tad annoyed. Why wouldn’t this dude talk, she wondered?
Indeed, aside from making no further comment about the amazing clawed feet that graced the chairs in the lobby, he just wasn’t saying much at all. He just continued to stare at her with bare, unnerving intensity as he pinned her with a dazzling, white-toothed smile.
“So basically he and I are just standing here, grinning like fools at each other as our eyeballs—cue the music of the immortal Barry White—make mad, passionate love,” she scoffed in silence—again, thankfully. “That would be good and fine if we were stuck between the covers of some bloody romance novel, but—blast it—this is real life. So why won’t this seemingly silver tongued devil actually talk?”
“Um,” she said aloud, for once fumbling for the right words. “Do you happen to know the Italian word for toothpaste?”
Well there then, she’d said it. The most nonsensical, inane phrase she could possibly give voice to, had just passed the lips of her cherry red mouth.
Still, as she’d realized at the airport earlier that day, this was something that she did indeed need to know at this point. It also qualified as a simple, basic question that he should be able to answer.
“I mean, judging by that accent—which is dead cute and uniquely rhythmic, by the way—you are indeed Italian,” she said aloud, adding with a shrug, “I have some Italian blood and studied the language a bit in college—still I must be a little rusty, as I seem to be forgetting some very basic words and phrases. So could you please tell me, how do you say the word toothpaste in Italian?”
The man stared at her for a long, quiet moment, mouthing the word ‘toothpaste’ to adorable effect.
“Si, toothpaste,” Naomi replied with a gentle grin. “That stuff you apply to your teeth to clean it once in a while, that is so supremely sticky you don’t want to attempt to conduct a conversation throughout the course of its use but it also can taste quite yummy—depending on its flavor.”
The stranger guffawed outright.
“Toothpaste!” he affirmed, sturdy fist held triumphant in the air as he finally seemed to comprehend her words.
“Yeah!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in a show of victory. “So, could you enlighten me as to the Italian term for this amazing little wonder substance that we all use each day—twice a day, preferably and for the benefit of everyone who comes into contact with us?”
The man continued to chuckle as he affirmed, “Toothpaste. Dentifricio.”
Then she took in her breath as, continuing to stare deep into her eyes, the marvel before her took her hand in his and lifted it to his full, moist lips; gracing her with a gentlemanly kiss as their gazes met and locked.
Her breath suspended outright as suddenly she lost herself in the spectacle of his beauty; devouring a gaze as warm and steamy as her favorite hot cocoa, as well as the sweet but provocative upturn of those thick, sumptuous lips.
“Bellissimo,” he intoned, voice released in a scintillating purr as their eyes locked.
She said nothing, only shared his secret smile as their public surroundings dissolved around them and a mysterious bond seemed to form between them.
Finally and with a devastating smile he turned away from her; teasing her with a playful wink as he swept with a smooth flourish up a nearby staircase with a scrolled iron railway.
“And it is most interesting to watch him sweep,” she mused, pursing her lips in a show of keen admiration as she admired the fall of his long, silky dark hair down the length of his planed back, the firm and strong muscled set of his hips and shoulders, as well as certain other attributes.
“Mighty nice derriere, I must say,” she thought with eyebrows arched, pondering the complete and utter ridiculousness of using a distinctly French phrase to describe a distinctly Italian man.
And pondering in far more depth the intimate introduction that had just stole her breath and set her heart racing.
“I have to find out his name,” she mused, biting her lip as she immediately and inexplicably missed a man she barely knew, a foreign beauty who barely even seemed able to speak her own language. “I have to know this man.”
“Miss? Are you quite bene? That is to say, are you all right?”
Her rhapsodic meditation was disrupted by the sound of a soft, feminine voice, one that managed to penetrate her dreamlike haze and turn her in the direction of its soothing source.
She raised her head to come face and face with a lithe, petite Italian beauty that stood behind the long, brass bordered mahogany desk that formed a far corner of the hotel lobby.
“Bene?” The woman, who boasted a luxurious fall of midnight black hair and skin of rich cinnamon, widened her ebony eyes in Naomi’s direction as she repeated her question.
“Yep, I’m all good and bene,” Naomi affirmed, herself not so sure of this fact as she dragged her suitcases in the direction of the registration desk. “I also happen to be very thankful to meet someone who speaks more than a world or two of English. At any rate, I just arrived here from New York and need to check in to the suite I reserved here.”
The clerk nodded.
“And what is your name?” she asked, her manicured, ruby red fingernails flipping through the pages of her black, pleather bound ledger.
“Naomi Baker, very nice to meet you,” she declared with a smile. “I reserved a one bedroom suite for the duration of the week.”
The woman bowed her head low above her ledger, her wide dark eyes squinting in concentration as one of those immaculately groomed fingernails traced the line of names imprinted down the length of that day’s reservation page.
“Ah yes, Ms. Baker. Here you are,” she confirmed, greeting her newest guest with a brilliant white-toothed smile as she retrieved and handed over a crème colored card, “Here is your room key. I hope that you enjoy your stay here. Tell me, is there anything special you need, that will make your stay more comfortable?”
Naomi nodded.
“Actually I need two things, thanks for asking,” she told her, adding as she held up two fingers for emphasis. “No. 1, I need bellissimo—I mean to say, I need dentifricio—I think.”
The clerk chuckled.
“You need toothpaste,” she corrected her in a gentle tone, adding with eyebrows arched, “No problemo. And what, may I ask, is the second thing you need?”
Naomi grinned.
“Oh, it’s not a big request,” she assured her, adding as she made a broad gesture in the direction of the corner staircase, “As it turns out, though, aside from my much needed tube of Sparkly Gums I also happen to need that man that just walked up that staircase. No - correction. I happen to need that man that just floated up the staircase. I swear the man does not walk, at least not in the manner that we mortal humans do. He also does not happen to speak much English, blast him, which means that I never was able to ascertain his name. Or, for that matter, his room number.”
The clerk guffawed outright.
“Well unfortunately, as a responsible employee of this hotel I am not at liberty to divulge the gentleman’s room number to you,” she revealed with a regretful pout, adding quickly, “but seeing as though he is something of a local celebrity, and especially given the way that he was looking at you just now, I suppose that I could tell you his name. He is Angelo Romano, a celebrated Italian male model who is shooting a big print ad for us this week. Isn’t he cute?”