by Avery Aster
“What?”
“The tabloid said Eddie is shacking up with a new woman.” Birdie defended spending their business money on her insanity.
“Mom, Dad is dead. And soon we will be, too, if you keep blowing every penny we make.” Sick to her stomach from stress, Lex hung up the phone, telling Birdie she didn’t want to speak to her ‘til she got back to New York. Lex put a call in to the bank manager on the Easton account, having her mother removed as a co-signatory.
Disappointed and sad, but not surprised by her mother’s actions, Lex understood Birdie would do anything to have Eddie back in her life, even if it meant channeling him through Charmaine. She made a note to herself to find her mother a cheaper medium.
She didn’t want to be subjected to Massimo’s fashion disapproval two days in a row, so she’d go a different route than before. No stretchy pants today, she decided, putting on the sundress she’d packed. No granny panties, either, as she slipped on a thong and no bra—way too muggy. Gel blush tinged her cheeks and a sheer green shadow highlighted her eyes. Game on, Masi.
This was her last chance to persuade the prince to sell Easton the fabrics. If he wouldn’t, she’d be forced to deal with Donatella. The Easton Essentials label on the Donatella fabrics gave her the same sensation as chewing tinfoil. Painful. Unthinkable. Yuk! Donatella’s textiles didn’t measure up to Girasoli. She appreciated Vive’s ambition, but realistic viewpoints weren’t Miss Farnworth’s strongpoint.
Arriving at the palace’s front gate, she paused as the prince stood next to a racecar.
Did the hot man fashion show start already?
Massimo had changed into white linen slacks, revealing an endowed bulge from his crotch. He sported a short-sleeved polo shirt which made his jacked pecs, biceps and triceps pop.
Nice guns! She imagined his strong arms holding her close and fucking the New York outta her.
The car shined as sexy as its owner. The back taillights read “Pagani”. Shaped as a bullet, its silvery ice glaze finish and thin black wheels chromed large pinwheel-like starbursts.
A Pagani ride would be a new experience for Lex. She imagined it was going to be high-speed.
“Don’t you have a limo, or a driver, or something or other?” Lex didn’t want to travel in the car alone with him. Although the very way he stood there—in control and confident—told her no one drove this man around.
“Sì, but he is on vacation.”
“Is everyone on a European holiday around here?”
“You are stuck with me.” The prince opened the door. “Dopo aver.”
“Happy I’m not wearing pants?”
“Magnifico.” He studied her up and down, then up again. His face exuded evident satisfaction.
“I hope it’s appropriate for Milan,” she mocked.
Her A-line dress with colors in sunglow radiated cheer. Vive raved it was a perfect color for Lex. The surplice neckline, spaghetti straps and smocked empire waist accentuated the positive. She’d designed it herself, though she didn’t remember it being so short when she’d sewn it.
“Beautiful,” he remarked with quiet emphasis. But his eyes spoke over his voice and both dark orbs undressed her. Massimo gave the impression he’d be sweeter with her on the trip compared to their dinner the previous night.
His admiration aroused her. As she slid into the bucket seat and fastened the seat belt, her nipples pebbled. Reaching down to smooth out her dress, she observed and confirmed it didn’t cover her pussy. Shit.
The prince climbed into the driver’s seat while staring at her legs. There were maybe three inches between them, at best. He threw the turbo engine into first gear as they accelerated down the winding seaside hill.
Lex placed her purse flat on her lap, attempting to cover herself.
“Why are you against showing your legs?” He shifted again as they picked up speed. “I complimented you earlier. You are magnifica.”
“Thank you.” She’d been receiving several compliments in recent months. Hard to imagine, the jeers from her chubby childhood created many scars. She thanked him in hopes he’d watch the road and not her.
“Prego.” His forearms flexed as he shifted again.
She noticed his eyes would go from the road back to her. Lex wondered how much weightlifting he’d done that morning as his forearms were pumped. She imagined Massimo enclosing her, hoisting her legs up while she lay on her back, looking deep into his warm eyes while he thrust inside her—still fucking the Manhattan outta her.
“Why do you hesitate to answer?” He pressed his right leg down on the gas.
The fuel injection vibrated her seat—and her pussy.
My God, he’s insistent. “I’m self-conscious, I guess.” She gazed out the window, observing the village zooming closer. “I don’t care to talk about myself, never have. Tell me something about your kingdom.”
“Sì, I’ll start with the island. I thought we would drive through town on our way to the airport. It’s a landing strip and a garage with a few planes, not a commercial airport.”
“Drive or race?” she asked. “I’ve never seen anyone accelerate downhill. Slow down.”
The racer rode an inch or two off the ground with seats on the floor. They hit a cobblestone bump and the car shook.
Lex’s legs spread as she went to cross them. Her vagina and ass vibrated with a smack against the seat—hard. “Oh. Ohhh,” she emitted as she reached for the console to brace herself. She hoped to ease her arousal until the car stopped humming. Lex lifted her ass off the seat a smidge, except she wound up with his hand versus the console. From her little left toe to her right ear, her body reacted with flaming desire. My sweet pussy.
Kaaapooooom. Massimo accelerated, taking the car faster.
Her nipples became sensitive to the air-conditioning’s icy blast from the front vents. She attempted to cross her legs a second time; the sensation growing from her clit’s longing to be touched became stronger every second. I’m getting wet.
Who knew road turbulence could stir such a response?
“Eh, eh, eh.” Massimo laughed for a minute. Once his humor ceased, he explained, “This car is a true stallion. It has seven hundred horsepower.”
“Giddy up!” she joked, releasing her grip. Lex noted when she held his arm, Massimo’s third leg stirred in his slacks, promising to get loose. Unzip your pants, Masi. Show me whatcha got.
Sinking deeper in her seat, feeling the heat while thinking about his dick, she hoped he’d slow down, and soon. She pressed her Tory Burch ballet flats against the car’s floor and tried not to let her newfound eroticism show. Tory, give me some advice here, please.
“And it can do zero to sixty in three seconds,” he finished. Massimo adjusted himself as the car sped over one hundred.
She attempted to ignore his thrills and reminded him, “You were going to tell me about the island.” Lex swallowed hard, looking down at his groin mixed with the blur out the window—her head spun.
“Sì, Isola di Girasoli has been in my family for three hundred years. Once a Sicily colony, my great-grandfather founded the land to grow sunflowers. As the taxes increased and Russia became the leader in sunflower oil production, our people searched for new ways to enjoy their wealth without paying the price.”
The terracotta-roofed homes nestled between the green hills created a picture-perfect postcard. Hampton summers with her parents prior to her life going to shit flashed in her mind. Her eyes moistened thinking about better times.
Lex lowered her tortoiseshell sunglasses over her eyes, grateful for the privacy they afforded her. “Is your father alive? I take it he’s not at the palace.” She didn’t remember reading any press on his father—ever. The tabloids kept the Tittoni coverage on the prince. Editorials remained somewhat shallow with sex and beach stories on his night life.
“No, he died last year. He was in his seventies.” He kept his eyes on the road.
“Seventies? Massimo, your father would’ve been—
”
“Old when my mother gave birth to me, yes. My madre was eighteen when she wed my padre. There were thirty years between them. She passed away in a boating accident when I was seven.”
They rounded a corner and headed up the opposing hillside.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Massimo didn’t have any immediate family. “Can you tell me where this royalty fits in?”
He motioned to the beaches out the car window. “Mia famiglia founded the isle. Declared by Italy’s king as royal sovereigns, the House of Tittoni created their own small kingdom. His son, my grandfather, developed the resorts you see on your right. And mio padre added the casinos alongside our beaches.”
“It’s very impressive,” Lex complimented him on Isola di Girasoli’s beauty, which was totally more than she expected.
“Today, the royal crest is a society title, tax break and a privilege to live on the isola during the holidays. But I’m hoping to change the misfortunes in years to come—rebuild our empire and its riches.”
“We have some things in common.” Lex deliberated on her finances and fought the urge to scream. “How much farther ’til we reach the airport?” she asked, reminding herself she needed to secure the fabrics and return to New York Fashion Week preparations. No time for new friendships.
“Almost there. It’s just up this bluff.” He shifted the racer into overdrive. “I don’t get to be here often. Since I’m the heir, the royal secretary keeps my schedule packed with appearances in France, Germany and England.”
“Wow, you sure do travel a lot. When I was a kid, we took vacations all over the world. Today, I pretty much stick to Manhattan and work.” I have no life.
“I know what you mean. Any downtime I have is spent at my Milano home. It’s close to the factory.”
“How does Girasoli Garment Company come into this?” Lex noted the brochures she received on Girasoli illuminated zero heritage on the brand. Girasoli severed itself from its origins and started anew.
“My great-grandfather founded Girasoli Garments to make money on the side. He loved private enterprise and Italiano textiles. No money in being a royal. There are a few families in Europe who have separate income streams, such as the Tittonis. My great-grandfather flipped his sunflower cropping business to fabrics and Girasoli Garment Company began.”
“Interesting. I love sunflowers.” She thought about what it would take to get Massimo to vacate the fashion world and go back to growing plants.
Massimo turned into the small airport, which boasted a dozen planes and a helicopter. “Ready?” He brought the hot wheels to a halt and added, “Flying time will be about an hour and ten minutes.”
Now is an appropriate time to start popping Xanax. Lex tried to settle her stomach from the car ride as she moved away from the roadster, the dried clay leaving a film over her shoes with each step. The tarmac, situated at the island’s highest peak, overlooked the village, the palace and even Sicily. She walked over to the cliffside to clear her head. Inhaling, aromas from lemon trees, farmed fruits and a briny ocean tang engulfed her senses. As she relaxed her shoulders, the scent put her in a peaceful mood. For a second, she forgot about her worries.
Lex noticed Massimo already at the plane and hurried over.
The single-engine jet, although undersized, was striking. Similar to the prince’s sports car.
Cupping her hands around her eyes, she pressed her face to the window to see a tiny cockpit. “Where’s the pilot?”
“Right here.” He held out the keys, walking around the plane’s right side, smirking, and posing as Indiana Jones on the last crusade. She hoped they weren’t heading toward the Temple of Doom. Massimo rivaled Dr. Jones in hotness, but she prayed not in adventure.
“Do you have a pilot’s license?” she asked, unsure if they taught aviation at The Royal Millionaire Playboy Academy.
“Sì, signorina.” He shook his head poking fun at her.
“I’m serious. Show me your license, please.” Lex held on to the plane’s door as if it were a gate to Hell. Christian Dior, get me outta here.
Massimo closed the distance between them in response. “Give me your hand.” Not waiting for her to respond, he grabbed her mitts from the door. “Bella, you are shaking,” he noticed and secured his fingers around hers, massaging her palm into his.
Strong hands. “You may call me Lex, not Bella. This isn’t Twilight.” She didn’t care for paranormal.
“Lex,” he whispered in a soothing voice meant for sarcasm, but his tone turned her on. Pillow-talk fabulous, he continued, “You are in good hands. I fly, race, sail. I have licenses for many things. Per favore, get in.” He held the door open as she stepped up. “Here, let me help you,” he proposed as his large hands grazed under her ass, sliding her into the cockpit.
“Watch it!” Lex’s nipples hardened in stark arousal. She became light as air when he more or less threw her bag and then her into the cockpit. “Ahhhhh!” she screamed. Massimo’s gentle intent was overlooked as she bounced when he lifted her up high.
“Scusi,” Massimo apologized. Taunting her, he hung in the doorway and stared down over her, as if they were in bed together. Where he’d spread her legs and thrust into her. But he didn’t. He gave her a confident nod, self-assured she wanted him.
I hate you. Flabbergasted into silence, she ogled him as he clicked her seat belt in. Mortification erupted as he slipped his hands under the straps, grazing her erect nipples. Not because he touched her—hell, the prince could do anything he desired—but because Massimo confirmed to them both she was aroused. She wanted him. Her mouth said fuck off, but her body danced to fuck me. “You’re copping a feel.”
“Just making sure my passenger is in, nice and tight,” Massimo confirmed as he straightened—and rubbed—her legs. Stepping down, he uttered, “I would hate to see those long, sexy legs fall out, dropping you into a shark’s mouth somewhere over the Mediterranean.”
“Ha! Your airplane humor is lost on my American wits.” She pulled on the straps, showing she could manage fine without him. His focus on her ass, breasts and safety reminded Lex what she’d been missing while working away, building Easton Essentials. A man—a fifty-two-inch chested, six-foot-three standing, brown-eyed, black-haired, hundreds to billions dollars rich, hung like a horse, cocky, conceited, alpha man.
He went around to his side and hopped in, the cabin packed tighter compared to the racecar as Massimo’s arm jammed up against hers. He nudged her and joked, “Do you see room for a third person to fly us?” Familiar with the dashboard, he slammed the door and worked the instrument panel.
Lex half-closed her eyes thinking about him touching her again—and again. I hate him. She kept telling herself that, but it was getting harder and harder for her to believe. Self, you’re not very convincing. Work on that, biotch.
The control panel lit up, resembling Manhattan’s downtown skyline, welcoming his command.
When Lex’s consciousness returned to Earth she thought, ‘I Hate Him, Please Fuck Me’ and her tongue sharpened, she bleated, “Most fitting for you, Prince Massimo Tittoni, to be flying this plane.” He’d been in charge since the get-go. Massimo exuded many extraordinary talents, so much so it pissed her off yet turned her on at the same time.
“Meaning?” he prodded as the jet started lunging them forward.
“You’re an adrenaline junkie.” She crossed her hands over her chest, covering her aroused nipples of which he’d become overly aware. “They have support groups for you guys back in the States—Adrenaline Addicts Anonymous.”
This man loved everything high-tempo—racecars, big business, rich lifestyles and his many poolside lovers. It scared her for familiar reasons. After all, her father died the same way. He lived life in fifth gear to the point where no one returned without getting hurt.
You junkies never settle down.
Her ears popped as they took off. She peeked out the rattling window, surprised she enjoyed the prince’s flying much better th
an his driving. Eyes covered under her Tom Ford sunglasses, she hid her exhilaration from zooming over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Shades shimmering in cyan, turquoise and ultramarine blended into the waves below.
She tried to take in the thin air supply without hyperventilating from the thrill, convinced she’d come in her seat if he hit an air pocket.
Thank you, God, Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen
My cock…is…oh, bella. The jet hit turbulence soaring over Genoa toward Milan, and Massimo found Lex’s hand in his whenever the plane bounced against the vertical draft. He didn’t steer the aircraft into turbulence on purpose, but he couldn’t help playing into it once he realized the cause and effect. Holding Lex’s hand gave him an erection, and what he could feel was a little precum in his trousers. When he glanced down at his crotch, he noticed a quarter-sized wet spot on his slacks front. Oh, shit!
Lex laughed.
“Scusi,” he apologized. He took a deep breath to calm his arousal. She smelled fresh and sweet, kiwi again.
Silence between them gave him time to fill his mind with dirty thoughts. Thoughts where he’d take this woman to his Milan mansion—kissing her, lacing her lips with his own, sucking on her tits, tracing each nipple with his tongue, filling her with his cock.
A black Maserati Quattroporte, driven by two Girasoli security guards, picked them up at the airport and shuttled them through the cobblestone streets to the factory. Located in Milan’s garment district on Via Monte Napoleone, the Girasoli center took up three city blocks. The factory was deserted, though.
“You weren’t kidding about it being closed, were ya?” she acknowledged as she stepped out from the limo into the hot sun.
“Italians take their holidays with feverish intent.” He typed in a ten-digit password to the main entrance. After deactivating the alarm, he pushed open the security door and motioned her through the main lobby.
“We’re standing in the textile plant. This is where we bring the fabrics in from France, India and our own smaller factories in the northern countryside near Trent. The fabrics are dyed and cut, then sent to our second building, where they are stretched, packed and shipped.”
