by Noree Kahika
A couple of hours later and still no sign from Roman, who had absconded to some place on the yacht to work, I decided to entertain myself by watching one of the many DVDs the media room had to offer. As I selected a movie, one of the crew came in to ask whether I would like something to eat. Still full from the late lunch we had, I settled for a sandwich and a soda, curling up on one of the oversized plush armchairs in the media room to eat my food when it was delivered and watch the movie.
“Wake up, baby.”
I blinked open my eyes to a softly beckoning and familiar deep voice.
Roman was bent over me; his fingers glided tenderly down the side of my temple before he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Hey.” My voice was croaky from sleep. “What time is it?”
“It’s late. Just past midnight.” His whispered voice was apologetic.
“Oh.” I shifted, sitting up and coming more awake. “You’ve been working all this time?”
“Yeah. I stopped for a while to grab some dinner, found you in here fast asleep, left you to rest for a bit while I finished up some work. And that brings us to now.”
“Oh.” I ribbed my eyes and stated the obvious. “I fell asleep watching the movie.”
“Yeah, you did, Princess.” His answering smile was dazzling. “You hungry?” His dark eyes roamed my face in concern.
“No, I had a sandwich earlier.”
He brushed his lips against mine; his tongue darted out and traced the swell of my bottom lip. “Okay,” he whispered, pulling back an inch.
His proximity, the scent of his musky aftershave, those fathomless midnight-blue eyes staring back at me, and the taste from his tongue on my lips made me abruptly hungry but not for food—I was hungry for something else entirely.
As if sensing my abrupt mood shift, Roman hauled me up, turned me around, and then sat in the chair I’d just vacated. Wordlessly, he pulled me back down so I straddled his lap, my knees pressed firmly on either side of his thighs.
Now we were talking.
Grateful I’d changed clothes earlier in the evening in favor of my cute blue and lemon-striped cotton pajama shorts with matching camisole, I snuggled my face into the crook of his neck and inhaled deeply his unique masculine scent.
“I think I like you on top.”
His chest felt so warm, so safe and comfortable, the thought of never leaving his embrace flashed disconcertingly across my mind.
“I bet you do,” I teased. I slid my arms around his neck and wriggled my ass against his groin in an effort to clear my mind.
“You want to play a little rough, Princess?” His seductive yet gruff question took me by surprise, as did his hands that rounded my ass as his fingers dug deliciously into my skin.
In response, I drew back to grasp the hem of his t-shirt, pulled it up and over his head and exposed the taut, rippling muscles of his abs. Roman’s breath hissed as I bent forward, ran my tongue across one of his nipples before I lavished the other while my hands freely roamed every square inch of his torso. On a growl, he lifted my camisole up and off; his mouth instantly latched onto one of my breasts, sucking the nipple into the heat of his mouth, while tweaking the other until I whimpered in pleasure.
“Roman,” I moaned. My fingers ran through his dark hair. His mouth left my breast, capturing my moan in a searing kiss. His tongue plundered ruthlessly for dominance until I couldn’t breathe, having to tear away and gasp for air.
Our eyes locked; my features reflected the carnality in his indigo irises, and then it happened—we both simultaneously tore at the remainder of each other’s clothing with fevered urgency. I fumbled franticly to undo the fly of his jeans as Roman violently wrenched the pajama bottoms from my hips, each of our limbs tussling together in our haste. Lifting me up effortlessly by the waist as if I weighed nothing, he slammed me down over his shaft and impaled me until I completely sheathed his cock to the hilt.
“Roman,” I screamed in ecstasy. My nails dug into the skin of his shoulders. Then he was everywhere: his lips on my mouth, his hand in my hair, tugging almost painfully to the side so he could deepen our kiss. His other hand fondled my breast but I couldn’t handle all the pleasurable sensations bombarding me at once—it was too much. He needed to move and he needed to do it now!
Tearing my lips from his, I begged, “You have to move. Please move, Roman.” I rocked my hips back and forth but his firm grip on my hips stayed me.
“You may be on top, baby,” he growled between gritted teeth. “But I will always be in control.”
“Whatever,” I huffed. My pelvis squirmed from lust. “Just move already!”
His answering smirk was devilish. “That…I can do, Princess.”
With that, he moved, I moved, the chair moved, most likely the yacht moved and the way he felt deep inside me, I was pretty damn positive the whole freaking world moved.
“Does this have a special meaning?” My head rested on Roman’s shoulder; my cheek pressed against his sternum and my fingers lightly traced the outline of Roman’s tattoo.
It was the most beautifully detailed and vibrant tattoo I’d ever seen. Half of the tattoo was of a ferocious lion, his head in profile and his mouth opened wide in mid-roar. His fiercely sharp-pointed teeth were on full display and blood dripped down the side of his jaw. The lion was inked in shades of grays and blacks, which mildly blunted the animal’s fearsome illustration.
The second half of the tattoo was inked in colorful stark contrast to that of the lion. It was of a stunningly magnificent phoenix. The proud creature’s wings were spanned to their full width. The bird’s eyes blazed with what could only be described as defiant fortitude and his chin was held aloft in a rebellious pose. Myriad vibrant oranges, yellows, and reds brushed the bird, cloaking it in gorgeous colors of vitality and bringing the image to life. The phoenix, true to its mythical legend, rose in triumph out of the symbolic ashes. However, in Roman’s tattoo, it was the lion’s mouth that the phoenix rose from—the blood that dripped down the lion’s mouth was that of the phoenix. Overall, the entire tattoo covered Roman’s left pectoral and had to be at least three inches in diameter. Who’d ever had drawn it was an extremely skilled artist.
Roman cleared his throat and his hand came up to rub briefly against the surface of his tattoo. “Yes. We had it done sometime during our second year of college. You know…one of those stupid things you do during a drunken weekend binge.”
I frowned—his answer didn’t align with the intricate artwork of the tattoo. A design this elaborate would’ve had to take hours to complete, if not several sessions over a period of time. Not some impulsive act over the course of a drunken weekend as he’d said. And who was we?
“We?”
“Hmm…” His hand glided up along my arm and he played with a lock of my hair and rubbed it through his fingers. “There were five…four of us. It was our first year in college when we all met and formed a friendship. I guess we all had a common goal. Anyway, Alex liked to refer to us as the Phoenix Alumni.” He snickered, as if he remembered something derisive. “It was Noah’s idea to get the tattoo—he was always into his ink.”
“You all got tattoos? At the same time?” I asked, incredulous.
Nodding, he said wryly, “Uh-uh. We each got the exact tattoo.”
Wow—there are four other men on the planet, all walking around with this incredibly detailed work of art permanently etched on their bodies—intriguing.
Even more intriguing—this was the first time since we’d met Roman had talked so openly and freely about his life. So far, he’d discussed his company, the places he’d travel to, what foods he liked, and opinions on general current affairs. But he hadn’t really shared much in the way of his personal relationships until now. And now that Roman had started, I didn’t want him to stop. When he didn’t say anything more, I prompted, “And there were five of you all together in this…Phoenix Alumni club?”
“No, four. There were four of us.”
His tone sounded both hesitant and guarded.
“So what else did you crazy guys get up to? And what was it you all had in common?”
“Ah…that, Princess, is a story for another time.” He stretched his arms over his head, brought his hands down to my waist and stood up from the chair, lifting me with him. “Now it’s bedtime.”
I felt a stab of disappointment—I really wanted to hear more. In fact, I found myself wanting, wishing to know a great deal more about Roman, his life, what interested him.
But as soon as his feet reached the floor, he lifted my naked body up; immediately my legs wrapped around his naked hips. His face burrowed into the crook of my neck, where he kissed, licked, and nibbled his way down my throat.
Every single thought I had promptly fled my head.
Chapter Twelve
For our last day in Italy before flying back to the US the following morning, we toured the charming city of Verona—home to Shakespeare’s fabled Romeo and Juliet, as well as the setting of another two of his plays.
The city was relatively smaller than I expected it to be; nonetheless, it was immensely charming, with a mix between ancient and modern elements. This time, Roman didn’t hire a private tour guide; rather, we both elected to wander leisurely around the walled historical center of the city to take in its many monuments, museums, churches, and gardens we encountered along the way. In the heart of the city, a number of open-aired stalls sold more tourist trinkets and crafts, surrounded by an assortment of bars, taverns, and restaurants, where a constant stream of both tourists and locals enjoyed the heat of the day.
While Roman was preoccupied with yet another phone call, I decided to buy some gelato in deliciously homemade waffle cones; not knowing Roman and Seth’s preferences for ice cream, I chose chocolate for both of them and chose a combination of pistachio and cherry for myself. I swear the first taste alone brought on a mini food orgasm—it was just that good. With actual plump ripe cherries mixed through the creamy gelato, the creation was heavenly.
Handing the ever-loitering Seth—who had accompanied us on the day trip—his ice cream, I was gifted with a bemused smile before he took the frozen treat from my outstretched hand. It was strange to be silently followed, our every step safeguarded by the imposing sentinel, but I guess it was a part of Roman’s everyday reality.
With both the remaining cones balanced in one hand, I reached out, snatched Roman’s cell from his hand, pressed the disconnect button and slid the offending device into my purse before I thrust his chocolate gelato in front of his horrified features.
“Here, taste this,” I demanded. Roman’s glare moved briefly to the cone before it came back to me.
“You do realize I was speaking to someone on the other end of that call, Charlotte,” he admonished sternly. An adorable frown masked his handsome face.
I grinned, wide and unrepentant. “Yes, I know.”
His frown deepened and he still did not take the proffered cone.
I waited a beat and then sighed loudly. “You’re missing out on all the fun. We’re in Verona, Roman, and this gelato is the best I’ve ever tasted. Come on, you’ve got to at least try it.” I held the cone up closer to him.
“There will always be work, but for God’s sakes, Roman, we’re standing at this very moment in Verona, Italy!”
I waved the hand that still held my cone in the air for further emphasis. Gelato melted down the sides of my wrists. “A city that’s so inspiringly beautiful even Shakespeare wrote timeless love stories about its beauty…and, well, it’s a crime against history not to savor every single second of it. Now take your damn ice cream and enjoy it.” I finished my mini-tirade on an almost shout.
His frown cleared as his lips twitched and he took the cone from my outstretched hand. “A crime against history, huh?” he said, bemused. His free arm drew me into the side of his warm body.
As we walked along the cobbled alleyway, he added, “By the way, I’ll be needing my phone back at some point today.”
“Of course.” I smiled to myself.
We spent the next few hours strolling the old town center, arm in arm, with Seth inconspicuously behind us at a distance. It was nice to see Roman fully relax and even nicer that we could just be ourselves and enjoy each other’s company. His quick wit and keen intelligence was captivating. Not only was Roman the most stunningly handsome man I’d ever met, but also he had a dry sense of humor that I found hilarious and his acute sense of intuition fascinated me.
Knowing in my head that this was nothing more than a holiday fling as we continued to stroll hand in hand along the narrowed cobblestone streets of Verona, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be something…more. My mind instantly rejected the idea; blaring warning bells rang in my head, cautioning me of a dangerous no-go zone. Erroneous thoughts like that could get me into a great deal of trouble, along with actually falling for the charismatic Roman Knight.
Besides, the man had secrets—secrets that piqued my infinite curiosity, and included being shadowed by personal security everywhere he went. Not to mention, Roman had player written all over him. I was definitely not looking to get my heart broken any time soon—or ever, for that matter. So for now and the foreseeable future, my emotions would remain safely locked inside the vault of my heart.
Sensing my quiet, withdrawn mood, Roman squeezed my shoulders. “You okay, Princess?”
I took a calming breath and shook my head in an attempt to dispel my thoughts. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Verona was renowned for its amazing gnocchi, so after I shared this little tidbit with Roman, he promptly directed us to a small but busy little restaurant that advertised with unabashed pride on several brightly painted billboards that they served the best gnocchi in all of Verona. After he garnered us a small table for two that faced the heart of the old town square, we sat and enjoyed a crisp glass of white wine while we waited for our meal to be served.
The meal, as expected, was mouth-wateringly good and after our meal, the waiter insisted we try the local beer. Even though I wasn’t a big fan of beers in general, the local brew called Rossa di Verona had a unique taste, which was surprisingly good and refreshing.
After lunch, we toured the partial ruins of the Roman Theatre that dated back to 1 AD, situated next to the River Adige and according to the pamphlet we were handed upon entry, to this day was still in use, with seating that rose sixty meters above the stage. Our last stop was to the fabled house of Juliet, where a bronzed statue of her likeness sat perched below the famous balcony.
“Legend has it, that if a person strokes their hand three times over the right breast of Juliet’s statue, they will have good fortune and luck in love,” I told Roman, eager to join the other tourists who hopped up onto the ledge of the statue to rub its right breast.
“Is that so?” Roman smirked in amusement.
“Yes. Here.” I held out my phone to him. “Can you take a picture of me?”
“While you’re copping a feel?”
“Yes, while I’m fondling her breasts. Now shut up and take my damn phone.”
Dutifully, Roman snapped several photos as I smiled brightly and groped the right breast of Juliet’s bronze statue.
“So you really believe copping a feel will bring you good fortune and love?” His tone was incredulous as he handed me back my phone.
“Yes,” I deadpanned. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Oh no. Fuck no! Fortune is something I already possess in abundance. As for love—well, that’s a fool’s game and I’m no fucking fool.”
The vehemence in his voice made my step falter and my gaze swung to him. “You don’t see yourself falling in love someday? Sharing your life with somebody?”
“No. Not really. I prefer more casual arrangements.”
I studied his face—his usual impassive mask.
“But you do date? You have had girlfriends?”
He frowned. “Of course I date and yes, Charlotte, I’ve had my f
air share of girlfriends, as you put it.”
I nodded absently and bit my lip to stem the sudden spike of jealousy I felt at the thought of Roman with other women. Of course, I was being totally irrational; the man was thirty-two. He’d probably been in many relationships before and with his extremely talented and extensive bedroom skill-set, I highly doubted he spent very many of those thirty-two years celibate. And there was the fact that Roman and I were not in a relationship—we were only lovers. This was a holiday fling, so why should I care about any of his prior relationships?
God, Charli—get your freaking act together here, girl!
Suddenly, a disconcerting thought crossed my mind and I instantly had to know the answer. “You don’t have a girlfriend now, do you? One waiting for you back in New York, I mean?”
“No. I don’t do long-term relationships, Charlotte.” He grabbed my elbow and walked us from the fabled courtyard. “It’s time we headed back to Venice.” His tone was stiff and made it absolutely clear that he didn’t wish to discuss the topic further.
“But surely you’ve been in love before?” I hedged, not willing to be dismissed so soon. The relationship comment I would ask about later but first, I wanted to know why he had reacted so strongly to my words. Roman’s lack of forthcoming information about himself was maddening. The man was locked up, tighter than Fort Knox.
He stopped abruptly and turned to face me; his too handsome face was still the perfect mask of damn stoicism. “I guess everyone’s thought they’ve been in love at one point in their lives.”
