by Shandi Boyes
When Lorenzo arches his brow about my prolonged gawk, I poke out my tongue.
“Don’t tempt me, amore mio. I only had the quickest taste of your lip gloss this morning. I’m craving much more.”
I kick Danny in the ankle before he can ask the question I see flaring in his eyes. He wants to know if we had a sleepover—again. Last night was our eighth in a row.
“Chin up, lover-boy. You’re about to get drool on your shoes,” I murmur to Danny when Lorenzo blows me an air kiss before he joins his teammates on the field to warm up.
“Are you sure he’s not bi?” Danny’s whine doubles when I nod. “You can’t just take his word on it, Sky. You need to straight-up ask him.”
“Danny…” I stop, hating that I’m about to break his cock-loving heart because even if Lorenzo were bi, there’s no way in hell I’d share him. He’s not the only possessive one in our relationship.
Danny slouches low into his chair, hearing the words I couldn’t speak. “At least tell me he sucks at anal.”
I crack open the can of beer he bought before raising it to my mouth, hoping the thought of pressing my lips against a nut-cooled beverage will hide my sultry grin.
It has the opposite effect. “Are you kidding me? That’s not fair. Why do stupid girls get all the good ones?”
I’m about to tell Danny we’ve dibbed out many times, citing Matt Bomer as my objective, but before I can, he storms off in a huff. I want to say he’s leaving to wash the anger from his face, but knowing Danny, he’s most likely hunting for another used jockstrap in the locker room.
“What’s up with Danny? He seems odd… for Danny.”
I laugh at the stumble of Lorenzo’s two final words before shifting my eyes to Danny. He’s standing at the side of the bar with his arms folded in front of his chest and his eyes downcast. I would save him from his grumpy mood, but since it’s doing wonders for the hungry sharks circling him, I’ll maintain my wing-woman’s station from afar. A flurry of men is surrounding him, more than ready to see if he has the anger needed to bang their heads into the headboard.
When I crank my neck back to peer at Lorenzo, I have to look up since we’re getting down and dirty in a gritty nightclub, celebrating his team’s win. What I said months ago about Lorenzo not having the ability to act caveman-like on a dance floor was horrendously ill-informed. Not only is his leave-me-the-fuck-alone aura enough to keep the thirsty crowd at a safe distance, he also doesn’t have to do the awkward camel-attempting-to-stand routine Elvis does when endeavoring to grind his crotch against Willow’s backside.
If he spreads his knees any wider, he’s going to tear himself a new butt-hole.
After giving Lorenzo a few seconds to absorb the hilariously funny incident occurring next to us, I inform him why Danny’s personality is short-circuiting, no pun intended. “I offhandedly told him your good at anal. He’s not taking the news well.”
It takes Lorenzo three hearty swallows to force his reply out of his mouth. “Do you often tell him things like that?”
I rub my curvy backside against the zipper every girl in this club is hoping to unzip before murmuring, “Yeah… pretty much so. Willow and Danny know everything.”
“Everything?”
His panicked face is as cute as hell. “Yes, everything. Do you not have the same crutch with Jonah?”
“Uh… no.” Sweat rolls down his cheeks when he shakes his head. “I pay him not to know shit.”
When he spins me around, the scrumptious scent of oranges fills my nostrils. We may have gone a little crazy with his goal celebrations the past month. Our orange-peel-mouth selfies and impromptu dance-offs are well received by Lorenzo’s fans. They get in on the action as often as possible, but the media is sniffing for a scandal.
Like most monarchs, there’s always a golden couple. That happens to be my best friend and her beau, who sailed through the scrutiny without a blip on the negativity radar. Unfortunately, there’s only room for one couple on the sporting elite podium, meaning my ‘relationship’ with Lorenzo is scrutinized by the press more than it’s celebrated.
Don’t get me wrong, sports journalists love Lorenzo. It’s me they have an issue with. I guess they have a reason to hate. It’s their job to separate fact from fiction, and my relationship with Lorenzo is as fake as they come. With only four teeny-tiny weeks left until the truth comes out, I can’t help but wonder what type of stories they’ll print about me then.
Lorenzo and I agreed from the get-go that we’d make our split appear amicable, but no matter how many times you polish shit, it will always be shit.
I’m snapped from my negative thoughts when Lorenzo’s deep timbre breaks through the bass thrumming my veins. “You all right?”
I jerk up my chin. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He doesn’t buy my lie, but he doesn’t push the truth from me either. He just offers up a perfect solution. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Is that a trick question?”
Smiling, he tugs me into his side before making a beeline for Willow and Elvis to let them know we’re leaving. Once our goodbyes are said, we head to the lot at the back of the club minus Danny, who’s having his drink purchased by a very handsome Swedish man.
Even with it being two in the morning, the media contingency is still present, but since the dance floor is packed with movie stars in town for an award show, Lorenzo and I slip into his sports car without our vision being hindered by camera flashes.
Unlike months ago when we left the same club, Lorenzo doesn’t ask me where our afterparty should be held. He heads straight for his suite at the Belvedere. He’s done the same thing since our weekend in my hometown.
Things changed between us then. I wouldn’t necessarily say for the better as I’m certain I’m weeks away from having my heart broken, but there’s no doubt it tripled our connection. Now instead of our exchanges being scorching, they’re out-of-this-world good. They have me convinced I have nothing to worry about, that not even a looming date will slacken the intensity of our exchanges, that’s there is more to us than a legally binding contract.
Is it stupid of me to feel this way? Probably, but I’ve never been one to worry about logistics until I have to. Furthermore, if I only have four weeks left with Lorenzo, I’m going to make the most of them.
The tension that forever crackles between us grows in abundance when I place my hand on Lorenzo’s trouser-covered thigh. The way his muscles bunch makes me as horny as fuck, however, I can’t act on sensation just yet. I don’t have a death wish.
“Eyes on the road, Shortie J. The only thing I want wrapped around a pole tonight are my lips around your dick.”
“Vaffanculo, amore mio. Are you trying to get us in a wreck?”
“Depends. Will it get your cock in my mouth quicker?”
He doesn’t answer me, he just flattens his foot on the gas pedal.
Lorenzo showcases his alpha-male awesomeness most brilliantly when he has us reaching his hotel in record-breaking time. Then, even quicker than that, we’re shredding each other’s clothes off as we stumble into the pitch-dark living room of his suite.
“I want to taste you, amore mio, but I’m also dying to fuck you. My cock has been leaking pre-cum since I saw you in my jersey.”
I smile against his mouth, pleased my effort to surprise him had the effect I was hoping for. “I’m glad you like it. You did pay for it, so it’s only fair you get the most benefit from it.” I snagged one of the hundred jerseys Lorenzo autographed at Paxton Panthers Sports Club last month. It was his official team jersey, so I had to add it to my collection. “Perhaps once you’ve finished fucking me over your couch, you can sign the back for me?”
“It will be my pleasure, amore mio.” His words shift to a growl when his hand slips between my legs. My panties are completely soaked through. “Tell me what you want before my impatience gets the better of me.”
I love the desperateness in his voice. It makes me feel cherished like not
even three months of constant fucking has waned his desire for me. “I want you inside of me. Anywhere.”
Lorenzo groans before pulling back. With the moon hidden by a cloud, I can’t see anything. Mercifully, he doesn’t appear to face the same dilemma. After peeling my panties down my legs, he arches me over his couch in the middle of the moderate-size living area.
“I’m going to take you hard and fast, then once I’ve spilled inside of you, I’ll take my time cherishing you like you deserve.” The sweet sound of his zipper lowering shrills over my pulse ringing in my ears. “Are you wet enough to take all of me, amore mio?”
I nod. “Yes, very much so.”
“Then beg. Tell me how much you want me.”
I take a few moments to relish the feeling of his cock’s head being dragged through the folds of my pussy before murmuring, “I want you so much. I want all of you, Shortie J.”
Lorenzo’s cock freezes two inches inside of me when the faint giggle of a little girl hits his ears. “Who’s Shortie J?”
Her accent is thicker than Lorenzo’s, and it’s echoed by a boy I’d guess to be a couple of years older than her. “I don’t know. How about you switch on the light and find out?”
When I scramble back in fright, another delicious three inches of Lorenzo’s cock notches inside of me. I’m equally turned on and terrified, unsure if I am coming or going.
I decide on the latter when the reading lamp next to the sofa is switched on.
After dismounting Lorenzo’s cock, I fall back with a thud, exposing more than clumsiness to two pairs of big brown eyes.
Fortunately, they’re so excited at discovering Lorenzo standing at the side of the couch, they don’t pay me any attention. They even don’t notice the buttons on his dress shirt are undone or that his fly is lowered when they bounce off the couch to greet him with jubilant screams. Their excited squeals don’t just wake the rest of the patrons in the hotel, they alert the guests I didn’t know were sleeping in Lorenzo’s spare room that he’s home.
My thighs squeeze together when an Italian-looking lady I’d guess to be in her early fifties enters the living room to see what all the fuss is about. She has style and grace, but no amount of elegance can hide the surprise on her face when she spots me splayed on the floor with my skirt around my midsection.
I beg for a big black vortex to swallow me whole when Lorenzo mutters, “Mamma, what are you doing here?”
Lorenzo’s mom waits for me to tug down my skirt before she greets her son with a big beaming smile. For an older lady, she’s gorgeous with thick wavy hair and a flawless face. “Alessia said your newfound attitude of late was compliments to a girl. I would have never believed her unless I saw it for myself.”
When she floats across the room, her satin kimono scrapping the wooden floorboards, Lorenzo hastily does up three buttons on his dress shirt to hide his sweat-slicked chest before aiding me back onto my feet.
Our eyes lock and hold for several terrifying seconds before he turns his wide gaze back to his mother. “Mamma, this is Skylar. Skylar, this is Gaia, my mamma.”
I’m barely getting over the shock of being introduced to his mother with my soaked panties mere inches to our right when the situation goes from bad to worst. Two additional raven-haired beauties peek their heads out of Lorenzo’s spare room. One is a similar age to Lorenzo, and the other is many many years older.
“Do you have a vortex to Italy in your guest bedroom?” I mumble to Lorenzo when they make their way to us.
He tilts into my side so his mother won’t overhear him. “If I do, do you want to make a run for it? I promise to show you a real Italian experience.”
I laugh, even though I’m feeling anything but playful.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lorenzo
I stop glaring at my sister for encouraging our mother’s unexpected visit when I detect Skylar’s presence. She’s hovering at the side of my small yet versatile dining room, tugging on the hem of her skirt. She’s still wearing my jersey, it’s just no longer knotted at her stomach, and her hair is back to its pre-clutched smoothness.
After introducing her to my grandmother, mother, sister, niece, and nephew, I suggested she freshen-up after a night of dancing before joining us for a nightcap. Skylar isn’t a woman who gets ready in under an hour, but she’s been in the bathroom so long, I was certain she was never going to come out.
When I jerk my chin up, wordlessly demanding Skylar to my side, I’m shocked when she follows through with my command without so much of a hesitation crossing her gorgeous features. The only time she ever does that is when she’s beneath me.
With all the seats around the dining table taken up by members of my family, I seize Skylar’s wrist and tug her to sit on my lap. I swear to God, my mamma and sister sigh like love-sick fools while commenting in Italian how in love I appear to be.
Nonna’s response is nowhere near as pleasant. “I suoi fianchi sono un po ‘sottili, ma sembra che abbia un sacco di latte nella parte anteriore.”
“Nonna,” Alessia scorns at the same time Giovanni and Gia giggle at Nonna’s rude, yet accurate statement.
“What did she say?” Skylar whispers, her words trembled out with a big breath.
“Ah—”
Before I can make up a lie, Gia giggles, “She likes your boobies.”
“Oh.” Skylar sits a little straighter in my lap. I really wish she wouldn’t. Her discarded panties are in my pocket, and I can feel their dampness. I’m not strong enough for this. Family or not, I’m seconds from finishing what we started on the table my family plans to eat brunch off. “Why, thank you.”
“Are they real?” This question isn’t from a seven-year-old who doesn’t know better. It came from my sister.
I’m about to tell Alessia not to be so rude, but Skylar bumps me with her shoulder, cutting me off. “No, they’re not. I paid for them, so they’re technically mine, but I’ve never heard anyone refer to silicon as real. What about yours? Are your boobs real?” There’s isn’t an ounce of malice in Skylar’s voice. Other than continually riling me about soccer, she doesn’t have a spiteful bone in her body. Believe me, I’ve searched every inch of her in depth many times the past three months.
Laughter breaks across the room when Alessia mutters, “I wish. After breastfeeding those two…” She nudges her head to Gio and Gia. “… I have to roll my boobs into my bra. That’s why I was asking. I’m seeking recommendations.”
“I have my surgeon’s details in my phone. I can get it for you if you like?”
When Alessia eagerly nods, Skylar scoots off my lap—regretfully.
She’s barely out of the room when Alessia locks her popping brown eyes with mine. “I want her. I need her. If you get rid of her, I’ll stab you,” she whispers in Italian.
“You’ve only just met her. Give her a chance to rub you the wrong way. She’d good at it.”
I’m playing, and every female around the table knows it. As much as their visit was unexpected, Alessia was right. My newfound attitude of late is compliments to Skylar. If I had any idea our relationship would be like this, I would have pushed even harder than I did my first two months here.
“We may have only just met her, but we’ve known you for a very long time, Lorenzo. I’ve never seen you like this.” My mamma leans over the table like she wants to pinch my cheeks as she did when I was a child. “That face. I’ve been waiting years to see that face.”
“It’s not like that, Mamma. We’re not like that.” I stray my eyes in the direction Skylar went, praying it will hide the deceit flaring in my eyes. I’ve wanted us to be like this since I helped her flee the guard. “We’re just having fun. It’s not serious.”
“Cazzate, hai la stessa espressione che tuo padre ha quando i suoi occhi si posano su tua madre.”
My eyes shoot to Nonna. They’re aiming to kill. “Don’t bring my father into this. He does not belong in this conversation. Furthermore, he didn’t love my mother. He
loves nobody but himself.”
“Lorenzo…” My scorn doesn’t stop my mother from trying to defuse the volatile situation. “We just want you to be happy.”
“Then don’t bring him into this.” I’m frustrated because if it weren’t for my father’s constant interference in my career, I would have never left Milan, which means I would have never met Skylar. That annoys me. I hate the fact the one thing I want more than anything is compliments of the one thing I’d give anything to get rid of.
Irritated, I stand from my chair, tuck it in, then say goodnight. With my mood hostile, my family lets me go.
“Shortie J…?” Skylar stumbles out in shock when I seize her wrist and pull her in the direction opposite to the one she was walking. “Is everything okay?”
She glances back at the dining room that has four generations of eyes peering at me, begging for me to return and talk like a man. I would if my father had raised me as one. He made me spineless and weak—weak enough for me to take my anger out on the wrong person.
“Take your clothes off, then lie in the middle of the bed.”
Skylar chokes on her spit as her eyes widen. “Your family is here. I’m all for hot and heavy PDA sessions, but I’d rather it be in front of people we don’t know.”
Her sass takes a step back when I lock my eyes with her. They’re brimming with condescending egotism, and they have her throat working hard to swallow.
“What’s going on? Was it something I said? I wasn’t insulting your sister’s boobs. They honestly look fine to me—”
“It wasn’t anything you did or said.”
“Then what is it? There’s only one time I’ve seen you this worked up…” Her words trail off as her brows stitch. After dragging her teeth over her bottom lip, she stands taller before nudging her head to the bed. “On my stomach or my back?” When I peer at her in shock, stunned by the swift end of her interrogation, she murmurs, “You said you want me in the middle of the bed. You didn’t say how.”
