Dark Descent into Desire

by J. J. Sorel

  “I can’t have this, Blake,” I protested.

  He ignored my pleas and turned to the man, whose face had been rejuvenated by the promise of a big sale. “Do you take this?” Blake presented a gold card.

  “Si, signore,” he sang.

  I stared down at my magical engagement ring, instantly adopting it as my amulet. Every time I looked at it, elation danced in my veins.

  It had been a beautiful week, floating around Florence as though I was in a movie.

  Blake read Dante’s Inferno, which he informed me was his second reading, having studied it at university. But reading it in Florence, which was the home of the writer, felt so real and authentic, it added magic to a book that he greatly admired.

  My eyes were too addicted to the sights, and to my very handsome fiancé, to focus on reading. Who would have thought a man balancing a book on his thighs could be so arousing?

  I knew what was under that book. I’d devoured it for breakfast as he had devoured me. How intoxicating it had been making love in that historic penthouse with arched windows overlooking the Ponte Vecchio, the Arno, and the rolling hills beyond.

  As we walked along the strip of shops, Blake said, “We could go to Milan for the dress if you like.”

  “But the opera’s tomorrow night.”

  He smiled. “That’s why private jets were invented.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. He wasn’t kidding. We’d flown to Italy in his private jet. I hadn’t even known he owned one.

  A green gown caught my eye. “That’s nice. And as much as I’d love to visit Milan, I’m happy to stay one more night here. I’m in love with this place.”

  He kissed me gently on the lips. “So am I. And it looks better with you in it.”

  My heart melted. “What a nice thing to say.”

  The shopkeeper gushed and gesticulated. I’d apparently chosen an original designer gown, the price tag of which made my jaw drop. Blake insisted I try it on.

  I stepped out of the dressing room, and the shopkeeper’s eyes lit up. The fit was perfect. The green silk cascaded down to a small train.

  Blake nodded. “It was made for you.”

  My cleavage pouted more than I thought suitable for a classy event, but Blake disagreed, and without further discussion, he paid for it. The shopkeeper seemed to dance behind the counter.

  As we were leaving, Blake said, “Promise me one thing.”

  “And what’s that?” I recognized that devilish glint in his eyes and expected something salacious.

  “Don’t wear anything under that gown.”

  He drew me close, and I felt his thick arousal against my thigh.

  “Siesta?” he whispered, leaving a hot stain on my neck.

  I nodded. “I could do with a lie down.”

  * * *

  VERONA WAS THE LAND of lovers, I soon discovered. Wafting along in my green gown, I imagined being an Italian actress in a ‘60s movie. My earlier fear of being overdressed was completely unfounded. Women had arrived in death-defying heels, slinking along in a rainbow of designer gowns. The contrast was striking as they settled around the historic carved-stone arena.

  We sat down, and once again, my neck strained. I couldn’t stop staring at the dreamlike ambience. Everything seemed so surreal, especially with that large magical moon hovering above us.

  The audience applauded when the soprano stepped out, and then there was respectful silence. Her voice seemed to bounce off the stars. I‘d never understood opera’s allure until that moment. Mesmerized and emotionally gripped, I fell under its spell.

  Blake’s eyes had that sheen of emotion too. I imagined that even the most stoic person would have struggled to remain unmoved.

  By the last act, I’d become liquid. Blake’s hand slid under my gown, which had a slit. Although it was not visible when I walked, due to the voluminous cascade of fabric, the design proved ideal for horny boyfriends with a penchant for a little public fondling.

  While the soprano sang her heart out to her lover, Blake’s fingers meandered up my thigh. We were flanked by patrons, and the danger of being caught played havoc with my arousal. But they were so riveted by the soprano’s heartfelt aria that just as she reached her high note, so did I.

  “One to tell the grandchildren,” Blake said as we left.

  I stopped walking. “What, that you fingered me at the opera? Or that we watched La Bohème in Verona?”

  “That’s sublimely coarse.” He laughed. “Come. There’s something else I’d like you to see.”

  61

  * * *

  BLAKE

  WE FINALLY ARRIVED IN front of the famous balcony. The bronze statue of Julietta positioned in front gave it away. Under the moonlight, there was something magical about the fictional home of Juliet. And just as I’d hoped, there were only a handful of visitors, mainly staggering along after a long day of soaking in the charms of that ancient city. It was nothing like the daytime, when people came in droves to see the famous balcony. That was why I chose midnight for our visit.

  Spotting the bronze statue, Penelope wandered over to study it. “This is the Juliet from Shakespeare,” she said, smiling innocently.

  I glanced over at a man I’d arranged to meet us there. “One minute. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  Her puzzled frown made me grin.

  “This is Massimo.” I introduced the actor to Penelope, who nodded. “And this is my wife-to-be, Penelope.”

  Massimo held out his hand. “Ciao. Tanto piacere.”

  Penelope was about to take his hand when he leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “I’d better explain,” I said, smiling at Penelope’s mystified frown.

  “Massimo’s here to marry us.”

  “Oh?” A line grew between her brows. “But don’t we need a celebrant and licenses?”

  “We do. This is more a declaration of my love for you.” I caressed her cheek. “We can make it official when we return home.”

  “But I don’t have a ring for you.”

  I removed a box from my pocket with two golden wedding bands.

  I passed one to her. “You hold onto that one.”

  She stared at it as though it were a piece of magic. A little sparkle shone off it, and she looked up at me in wonder, making me smile.

  “Am I putting you on the spot?” I asked. “Would you like to do this?”

  Her eyes glistened with tears. “Of course. Yes. Please.”

  Massimo’s reciting of an Italian love poem made it seem even more magical. His mellifluous words kissed the air and our spirits.

  When he finished, he took us through our vows.

  Penelope looked up at me, her eyes wide and teary.

  I placed the ring on her shaky finger, and she did the same on mine. We kissed, while Massimo used my phone to take a photo of us by the statue.

  We smiled at each other.

  It felt good. No, it felt brilliant. Nothing else mattered anymore. Just us.

  “Come. Let’s buy you a drink,” I suggested to the actor.

  He nodded with a big smile. “I know a nice little place, not far. Fresh pizza all night.”

  I looked at Penelope, who returned an enthusiastic nod, saying, “Yum.”

  After spending an hour with Massimo, listening to his stories of living in Verona as an actor in the opera, we saluted him.

  The night was perfect—still and warm. It was as though someone had made it so just for us. And it was very special.

  We remained outside sitting at a table, drinking champagne.

  “It’s so romantic, what you did.” Penelope’s eyes sparkled. “Am I really your wife?”

  “Oh, you are. You’re mine.”

  “And you’re my husband. That means you’re mine.”

  We clinked glasses. Peering down at the gold ring on my finger, I liked how it felt.

  I called over the waiter and asked in Italian, “Have you got any fresh cake?”

  He tipped h
is head as if I’d asked if he was a woman or something crazy like that. He crooked his finger. “Viene.”

  I looked at Penelope. “Back in a minute.”

  The waiter showed me a glass encasement of cakes. “Which would you like?”

  I pointed to the chocolate cake. “Two pieces.”

  He nodded approvingly and kissed his fingers.

  When I rejoined her, Penelope said, “Your Italian’s so good. And it suits you. Can you make love to me in Italian?”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure if I can translate smut into Italian.”

  “Like, ‘I love your tight wet cunt and I want to fuck your tits.’”

  “Why, Mrs. Sinclair, you’re being rather ribald and prurient.”

  Her squealed giggle was so contagious that I joined her.

  “Prurient? Ribald? You’re showing off, dear husband.”

  “Not at all. It’s all there in the Queen’s English.”

  The waiter brought our cakes and placed them down.

  Penelope licked her lips. “I’m going to waddle back to England at this rate.”

  “I like a big ass,” I said, taking a forkful of cake. Flavored with liqueur, rich chocolate, and nuts, it was delicious.

  She scowled. “Is it that big?”

  “No. It’s perfect.”

  We ate in silence, making little sounds of pleasure, almost akin to sex.

  She wiped her mouth. “That was something else.”

  “Wasn’t it? One can’t have a wedding without champagne and cake.”

  “Well called.” She smiled wistfully. “Well called on everything. This has been so beautiful.”

  “I’m in awe of your beauty.” I touched her hand. “I knew straightaway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After I saw you at the Cherry Orchard, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. And then at the gallery, when you turned, I knew I’d never be the same again.”

  “You make it seem so dramatic, as though I’ve changed you.”

  “You have.” I stared at her. “For the better. I’m not that man anymore. When I look back, I hated that person I paraded as.”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I thought you were a little stuck-up, but I saw compassion too. I sensed it was a form of protection.” Her eyes shone. “I hope I can keep you excited.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll do just fine.” My grin smoothed out. “It’s not always about sex, anyway. It’s companionship. I feel like you’re my best friend. I no longer have to hide. For someone who guards his privacy, that’s big.”

  “You’re also insatiable.”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “If having multiple orgasms every day is a problem, then I think I can manage somehow.” She giggled.

  I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Your pussy is very sexy. And responsive in a way that…”

  “What way?”

  “I like how you taste.”

  “Is that why you wanted to marry me?” she asked.

  I nearly laughed at that preposterous notion. “It’s not just sex. But you’re an exciting woman to fuck… to make love to… and to just hang out with.”

  Her smile grew wide. “Nice.” She paused to think. “In any case, I’m crazy about your penis.”

  My grin widened. “Good. Then we’re on the same page. Mutual genital admiration.”

  Her squealed laugh at three in the morning in that ancient city had a special magic about it.

  EPILOGUE

  TWO YEARS AND NINE MONTHS LATER…

  MAX TUGGED AT MY skirt, pointing at the peacock before charging after it. I giggled, watching my son run with wild abandon.

  It was my birthday, and the weather couldn’t have been sunnier. Blake had insisted on a weekend bash at Bath. We’d moved there when I got pregnant, and I instantly fell in love with the place. I couldn’t have been happier. It was a big step for Blake, the city slicker, to take, even though he still commuted to London regularly, having kept Mayfair.

  I’d gifted my house to Lilly, who’d opened up her own very successful beauty salon up the road. Rich clients came from everywhere. Her nail designs, which involved a myriad of swirly colors, had become legendary. And when it came to applying makeup and facials, no one came close.

  Sheldon stood by the table of canapés with his husband, Roger. Yes, they’d married. I was his best woman at what had turned out to be a very strange but fun affair. There were Sheldon’s posh family and friends mixing with Roger’s police colleagues and family who, although awkward at first, had soon relaxed and turned it into one hell of a party.

  Mary, my mother-in-law, and her new partner, Elliot, chatted with Sheldon and Roger. She lived with us in Bath. It was such a huge estate with so many living quarters, I’d lost count. That made big bashes, like the one we hosted that day, fun and accommodating. I loved the idea of having all the people I loved staying with us.

  Blake walked toward me, bouncing Juliet in his arms. It had taken him five minutes to get used to the fact that I was pregnant. I’d conceived in Italy, and nine months later, not just one baby but two exited my belly. I had to have a caesarean.

  I cried when I saw Blake, the man who’d sworn off fatherhood, holding a baby in each arm. Those little bundles of joy cradled in his biceps. That guarded cynic that I’d fallen hard for was unrecognizable. I could never have hoped for a more caring and devoted man to have children with.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Blake smiled at me. He put Juliet down, and she clung to his leg. She adored her father.

  “Elliot was just telling me that he’s building a mud-brick folly at the back of his home.”

  “That sounds nice and rustic,” I said. “He’s nice. Your mom looks really happy.”

  He nodded with a sparkle in those blue eyes with accents of the sky. “She is. He’s a good man.”

  “James looks a little glum over there, though.”

  “Doesn’t he? He’s still broken over Lilly.”

  “Oh well. It’s for the better. She’s in love. And to someone he introduced her to.” I grimaced, recalling the dramatics of that past year.

  After a sojourn in LA to hang low while the scandal of the depraved island affair played out in the media, James returned home, hoping to rekindle his relationship with Lilly. All the while, he’d continue to send money for their daughter. Although that had helped raise my estimation of him slightly, I was relieved that Lilly had turned her back on him.

  It was late afternoon, and James seemed a little over the limit as he strutted unevenly toward us. “Hey, you two,” he said with a big cheesy smile. “This is a marvelous place you’ve got here.” He regarded Blake. “I miss you at the club, though.”

  “I’ll be at Mayfair next week. We can catch up then. Like the good old days.”

  James looked at me and then Blake. “It’s not exactly like the good old days, though. You’re hitched. A father of not just one but two children. And all in three years.” He shook his head. “My God.”

  Blake gave me a subtle wink. “Time sweeps us along, and we can either grab a branch and pull ourselves out or keep rolling down the rapids.”

  “And I’ve been rolling down the rapids, right?”

  “You’ve always been adventurous, James,” said Blake, his tone neutral and devoid of judgment.

  James let out a deep sigh. “Yeah. And look where it’s got me.”

  “How was LA?” I asked.

  “Predictable,” he said, sounding tired.

  “How?” I asked.

  He paused to think. “It’s wild.” He sniffed. “Exciting at times. But it’s impossible to get a decent cup of tea.”

  We had to laugh at that time-honored English obsession with tea.

  “But apart from that, it was sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll. No, let me rephrase that—sex, drugs, and techno.” He chuckled.

  “I look forward to hearing about it,” said Blake.

  “Not too much to tell. It all just blurs into one
big endless party. Everyone ends up indistinguishable. And to be honest, I probably would have extracted more joy from reading Proust than hanging out at another anything goes weekender in Malibu.”

  Blake laughed. “Well, I’ll be. Proust? James, we’ll make a deep man out of you yet.”

  Instead of smiling, James looked at me and Blake seriously. He’d changed. His eyes kept flitting over to Lilly, who giggled raucously with Sheldon while Jasmine, her pretty three-year-old daughter, skipped about with Max.

  “She’s so beautiful,” he said almost to himself.

  “Lilly or Jasmine?” I asked.

  “Both,” he said.

  I felt so sorry for him suddenly.

  A motorbike roared in the distance, stirring me out of my thoughts.

  “Nice Harley-Davidson,” said Blake, staring at the gleaming motorcycle with high handlebars.

  It was Lilly’s new boyfriend, Reggie, arriving in style. He possessed that bad-boy swagger that Lilly loved, only he was anything but that. The filthy-rich son of a lord, and a billionaire in his own right, Reggie was a tattoo artist. He was passionate about the art form, and his heavily tattooed arms proved it. Besotted with Lilly, he was sweet with Jasmine and loved kids. With a clownish life-of-the-party personality, he possessed a big voice and a head full of crude jokes but was always respectful when that was called for.

  Wearing a sunny smile, he strutted toward Lilly with a soccer ball under his arm.

  “Here comes David Beckham,” muttered James sarcastically.

  “Are you going to be okay?” asked Blake.

  I loved the way he cared for those around him. And although James didn’t really, in my book, warrant that kind of sympathy, I loved my husband for his empathy and understanding. As Blake had said, everyone was entitled to one or two fuck ups, as long as they redeemed themselves, and there was no harm done to children or animals.

  Noticing Lilly and Reggie heading our way, James snuck off, probably to the bottle of whisky in the study—a place where Blake went to read and be alone. I needed that, too, but I headed to my very large studio at the back of the property to paint.