“With that kind of precedent,” Reggie gulped at the idea that twelve children might come from the joy one might find in that chair, “we must take care to bring a large number of condoms.”
Sergio chuckled as he led her down a long corridor, opened a set of double doors and walked into a long room with vermilion walls and gold-and-silver-framed paintings adorning them. “This is the reception room and the gallery. As the Avantis became more important in the next four hundred or so years, they commissioned paintings and sculpture from artists in Florence and Venice. You see them here.”
“Corregio.” Reggie recognized many from her art history classes. “An early Tintoretto. A Raphael. Heavens, Sergio.” She craned her neck to admire the dark chiaroscuros and brilliant Renaissance hues of the masters whose works lined the red walls. “This is a priceless collection!”
“Si. And one that needs proper tending too. The room has automatic temperature controls to prohibit deterioration of the canvases. And see those skylights? We had to cover them with sun protectant glass so that the works here might not dry out or dim. It is the oldest collection of Italian artists in private hands in the country.”
“Let’s come back here later too. I must absorb them all,” she told him with anticipation. “Had I been able to do more than draw stick figures, I would have wanted to try my hand at painting rather than cooking!”
With a molten look into her eyes, Sergio said, “Bravo. You like art and understand it. I hate reciting what is here for visitors. It seems, ah, how do you say? Too much ego?”
“Too egotistical?” she asked, and he nodded. “I would see how you would want the art prized for itself, not for its owner.” Still, the treasure that was here astounded and humbled her. Sergio wore it all as his due. As he should. As he had because he was born to it. But for her the abundance and its historical importance thrilled her and yet made her breathless.
She pressed one palm to her heart. She could and should value this man for the joy he brought her. But she was not of his world. Not of his experience. This display of priceless riches added to her determination not to expect more from him than the sexual delight they had. The dalliance they enjoyed. Yes, she was coming to care for him deeply. Yes, she would continue to give her body as she desired, but she must refrain from giving him her whole heart. Yet how could she do that? She had no practice in deception or denial. Especially of affection…or romantic love. Would she fail at saving herself? She faced him, curiosity about the house offering her a way to cover her somber conclusion. “So shall we see more?”
“Absolutely.” He led her through the formal dining room, the drawing room and the music room, each decorated in lavish gold baroque and ebony Napoleonic furniture. Then he took them down a long corridor lined with portraits of family from past centuries. “I can tell you stories of each man and woman, some of which will curl your hair. But let’s see this first,” he said, and flung open an ornately carved white door.
“My bedroom,” he announced, and led her into a sun-filled room with deep red and black velvet drapes, the sheer voile curtains beneath rustling with the breezes flowing in.
Entranced, Reggie walked into a room three times the size of her New York apartment and lush with ebony and gilt furnishings that could have come from some medieval lord’s wild imagination. Massive wooden cupboards, centuries old, ran from floor to ceiling. A twelve foot mirror, framed in filigreed gold, faced the bed. That structure was no mere place to rest from the day’s work but a piece that commanded the room and of a size she would bet could hold four adults in full sprawl. And to the side of that stood the biggest chaise longue, massively lipped at both ends, slanted oddly toward the floor and upholstered in wine-red brocade.
Reggie slowly faced Sergio. The questions on her lips were ones she had no right to ask. Who had come here with him? When? How many?
He stood, his arms crossing before him as he pondered her solemnly. “The bed was designed by Duke Lorenzo Avanti in the fifteenth century. He had a taste for many women at once until he met his wife Maria. After they married, he had no other women.”
She smiled, eager to pursue this topic. “Did they have children?”
“Eight.” Sergio nodded toward the mirror. “That was commissioned by the twelfth duke in 1710. He married a woman from Siena who had been his enemy’s daughter. He did not trust her when first they wed—and he had the mirror made so that he could see her from many angles amid the bedclothes as they mated. You see, he feared she would stab him.”
“My goodness.” Reggie feigned a shiver. “And did they have any children?”
“Two sons. Six daughters.”
“So it seems his wife never did him in?” Reggie walked forward to admire the mirror, her image waving in the fading silver.
“No, she grew to love him. And the mirror served as a means to enjoy each other from many vantage points.”
“Your family history is rife with men who loved their wives quite well,” she noted, reminding herself to put no stock in past dukes’ actions as prelude to the present duke’s tendencies.
“Yes, once they found the one they cared for, there was never anyone else for either. The result was many children, long lives, many riches.”
Initial comfort to any woman who loves you—and dares to hope you could love her in return. But any assumption such as that would be folly. Folly, Reggie.
She spun toward the chaise and let one hand drift over the deeply etched red brocade. “And the story that goes with this?”
“A sadder tale. One of Napoleon’s nieces and the current duke fell in love. They became betrothed and she came to the castello often. He had the couch built for them both. Seductione, they laughingly named the piece, which was an irony, you see, because neither had to seduce the other. They were, as so many of the Avantis’ marriages, a match made in heaven. They married but she was already pregnant and two months after the wedding, she gave birth to a son but she died from the labor days later. The duke kept the couch.”
“Did he marry again?”
“No. Which was a problem that his staff warned him about. If his only son and heir died, the title and the estates would become plums ripe for neighbors’ picking. The security of the countryside and the city would be in jeopardy. Warfare might well ensue—and this area has too often seen more wars than god should allow. Avanti dukes and their retainers have kept this area free of war—and built a prosperous community for centuries. Avanti dukes are the only ones to have a direct line of succession since 1011. But,” Sergio indicated the room with the sweep of one hand, “the current duke refused to take another woman to wife—or to his bed. His son survived, found a woman he adored and they had four sons.” Sergio smiled tenderly.
Reggie beamed at him. “An enchanted tale. How wonderful to know these men and women are your family.”
“It is a challenge to each duke to emulate his ancestors.” Sergio stared at her, his eyes falling from hers to her lips, her breasts and her hips. “We love one woman—and love her well. And for the rest of her life, she is the cherished duchess of her husband.”
Reggie’s throat filled with emotion, and yet she murmured, “I feel an enormous reverence for a family who could hold to that tradition and rapture through centuries of war and peace, disaster and prosperity. And yet I am not even a member of the family. How wonderful to be the head of it.”
His mouth curved in appreciation for her words. “And an enormous challenge to find one woman to love beyond all others—and all reason.”
“Yes.” She walked forward into his arms and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Show me the rest of the castle, darling. I cannot get enough of your stories.”
He wrapped her close to him and kissed her on her nose. “We will return here. You for a nap while I work, but now,” he took her hand and headed for the hall, “the room you have been waiting for.”
She grinned at him. “I do hope we are speaking of the kitchen?”
They threaded their
way through countless rooms until finally he flung one door wide. She stood on the threshold, unable to move for the beauty of the place. Bright, white and new, the kitchen was a modern cook’s paradise. Cabinets from floor to ceiling, three large fans whirling above, vents to circulate the air. Stainless steel refrigerators and freezers, a red wine rack white wine refrigerator, plus two huge stoves and ovens completed the appliances. In the center of the room stood two long islands, one of wood, the other of granite. Upon one stood a silver ice bucket filled with white wine and beers, beside it a bottle of red wine, uncorked to breathe, and beside that, a large tray of olives, grapes and cheeses, breads and salami. All this, she took to be their lunch.
Reggie broke away from Sergio, enthralled with the spacious beauty of the place. “I have never,” she said in awe, “seen anything so lovely. Sergio, it is divine.”
He watched her as if he meant to memorize her moves, her words. “You truly like it?”
She spun around, arms out like a dervish. “Oh darling, it is a dream. What shall we cook?”
He arched a brow, his look salacious—and long suffering. “Pasta, pork, tiramisu. Hunt the pantry and the refrigerators. You decide.”
“Hmmm,” she mused, and rubbed her hands, teasing him unmercifully, postponing for merely seconds her need to have him fuck her. Hopefully here—and now. “When shall we cook?”
“Now if you must.” He chuckled as he advanced on her like a marauder. “But first, you must remove those clothes. The staff is gone, bella. And I,” he pulled a string of condoms from his trouser pocket to show her, “am hungry.” He twirled an index finger at her. “And I know we both need to be refreshed.”
She attacked one button of her silk blouse. “Is this an old Avanti custom to make love in the kitchen?”
“If it isn’t, I declare it so now.” He watched her fingers work with hot intent. “Ah, there, you are so slow you torture me, Regina, not to let me see the breasts I love.”
She shook back her hair so that none covered her breasts. Then she preened, shrugging out of one arm of her blouse but leaving the other draped over her full and aching nipple. The bare one she lifted, pointed it toward him and pinched herself. She gave a little moan and watched his complexion turn deep red.
“Take that blouse off completely. You are killing me, you know?” He licked his lips and lifted his chin toward her. And when she let the cloth fall to the floor, he murmured, “The skirt now, cara.”
She went slowly, loving the look of his infatuation with her. Would she remember this when she was alone and lonely in her apartment next week and the next…and the next? She twirled away from him, more to hide her rush of tears than to seduce him, but that was the power she had to entertain him now—and by god she would use it to both their benefits. So she unclasped the button of her skirt and shimmied out of the scrap of material. Then she turned to face him, her hands going to her pussy, spreading her thighs wide and combing her thick curls for him. “Want a taste of anti-pasti, darling?” She sank a finger inside her cunt and she closed her eyes at the feel of herself. “I am very juicy. Want to come and see how much I yearn for you?”
She no sooner had the words out her mouth than he was there, bending her backward in his arms and devouring her nipples, growling in contentment. And she was drowning in the rush of cream that let down when he nibbled her areolas one by one then sent two blunt fingers up inside her cunt.
“I need more,” he ground out, and suddenly her world was horizontal as he caught her up in his arms and carried her to the granite island. Cold and hard to her back, the harsh feel of the counter was soon obliterated by the savage feast Sergio made of her labia. He put her to the island, her pussy at the edge of the board—and just high enough to let him have full access to her cunt, her swollen, begging breasts and the feel of his talented tongue as he laved her from vagina to clitoris in long, forceful swathes. “You are so pink, cara,” He sucked her clit, plumping her up to give him greater access to her bud. “So sweet.” He inserted two demanding fingers in her cunt and pumped her, making her arch. He pressed a hand to her stomach and forced her down. “No, you cannot come without me, bella. I need you mad for me.”
“Oh but I am, Sergio. Darling, I am.” She bucked and moaned.
Then he pressed something to her lips. “Sustenance. Eat.” An olive.
She licked it and his fingers then chewed the little olive. She told him to get her another.
This time he fed her a grape. And another.
“The wine,” she instructed him, and he briefly left her cold and lonely to pour a glass. He inserted two fingers into her cunt then dipped them in the wine. He took a sip and lifted the glass to her lips. “You must taste this brew, my sweet,” he told her. “This is my favorite nectar.”
“If you keep on this way,” she told him, chuckling, “we will die of malnutrition.”
“Ah. So wonderful to die with your cream on my lips and my fingers.”
She reached down to press him through his trousers. “I would prefer to die with your cock inside me.” She searched for a hold on his zipper. “Do you think you might grant me that favor, my duke?”
And so he undid his zipper, stepped out of his trousers and tore open a condom. She watched him roll it on his huge blue-veined rod, her mouth watering to have him. Then he stepped forward and in one smooth claim, drove his impressive girth deeply inside her. The height of the island seemed ideal, the angle of his penis filling her, incomparable. His lips sucked her nipples into his mouth as he pumped her to delight and shouted when he gave in to his own.
And at the end they lay there, his warm body recovering atop hers, his cock still filling her with joy. Filling her with recognition of one fact—she loved him. She knew it now. She loved his humor, his intellect, his heritage. She loved his artfulness in bed. His care of her. And when this interlude was over in a few days and she went home, she would go, loving him.
So now she resolved to spend the next few days tutoring herself in the even more difficult art of total enjoyment, no strings attached. Whatever he wanted, she would do. Wherever he led, she would go. She loved him. And there was no other joy she had ever expected with a lover. No other ecstasy she had ever had with a lover to compare.
Compared to that, what was her middle-class dictum that lovers had to mate and marry? That love and lovers were forever?
Chapter Five
She woke the next morning viewing the hot yellow sun streaming in the doors to the balcony. She stretched wide, arms flung out on the impossibly wide bed. She and Sergio had put it to good use last night, watching themselves in the antique mirror as his cock claimed her, her pink pussy glistening with succulent desire for him.
She rolled over now, the bed empty of him but filled with the memories of how carefully he had taken her here, not once but twice. And that was after they had loved on the sumptuous chaise. Seductione was so unnecessary to this man. She inhaled, loving his unique musk he’d left on the linens—and pushing back the dread of leaving him.
He emerged now from the bathroom—and she caught her breath at the sight of him. Naked, tanned and sleek as the panther on the crest at the gates, he strode toward her, his penis lax but still so impressive. The man came from a long line of excellent lovers who knew how to please their women—and had a formidable set of equipment to do so.
“What makes you smile, my queen?” He came to sit beside her, one hand caressing her throat.
“You,” she murmured, and beckoned him with puckered lips. “I am so fortunate.”
He bent to kiss her lips. “No less than I, my dearest.” He inserted a thumb inside her lips and licked his own in contemplation. “But I must leave you this morning to your own devices. I must consult with the chemists in the pasta factory and then a conference call with my lawyer in New York.”
“Again? The one you saw yesterday?” she asked.
“Yes, I have a few things to tell him. I will be down at the office in the city. But I will be hom
e as soon as I can.” He pulled down the sheet to expose her breasts and filled his hand with one globe. “My god, how I will miss you,” he whispered, and leaned over to suck a nipple like a greedy baby.
She sighed and pouted peevishly. “You cannot tease me like this and leave me alone.”
“Mmm,” he turned to lave her other breast with his scorching tongue, “I know it is torture. But I have a small solution.” He straightened. “Want to try?”
“Oh yes.” She knew she sounded like an eager child. “I love your ideas. What?”
He drew a finger down her torso to her pussy. His fingers tangled in her hair. “Remember you asked me if I had toys?”
She clamped her legs together in anticipation, trapping a few of his fingers against her. “Yes. What do you have?”
He went to the bureau and returned to display three silver balls, strung together by rounded silver ribbon. “From my ancestor, the duke who helped to fund the expedition of Marco Polo. Chinese love balls.”
“Marco Polo, why am I not surprised?” Her eyes, she was certain, danced as she examined his possession. “How do they work?”
He smiled slowly, straddling her form on the bed. His long cock began to rise before her to display the beauty of his dangling testicles, large and full. He sat back on his haunches so as not to crush her and then began to caress her hips. “First, mia regina, I will make you very wet.” He parted her labia and she undulated.
“You are torturing me.”
“No, cara, never. Only to make you drip cream for me.” He parted her swollen lips, heavy now with want of him and then he ran one finger, two, three fingers inside her.
“Almost,” she purred, “your fingers have almost filled me.”
He took his member in hand and, without benefit of condom, he ran himself deeply inside her. She arched with the giant probe that had her walls pounding for more of him. She grabbed for his arms but he eluded her and withdrew from her cunt. “No, bella,” he kissed her briefly as she whimpered. “We want you so aroused that these,” she felt his fingers push one cold, round ball up her cunt and sit at the base of her cervix, “slide in easily.”
Mia Dolce Page 5
