Breathless for Him (Davison & Allegra)

by Sofia Tate

  “What?” he asks, his voice raised in worry.

  “A few weeks ago, Papa and I received two anonymous letters. They were both of the picture of me being carried out by the cop the night they found me. We gave them to the detective who worked on my mother’s case.”

  “Do the cops know yet who sent them?” he demands.

  “No.”

  Suddenly, Davison is on his feet, his hands clenched into fists. He’s looking at me with a frenzied glare in his eyes.

  “That’s it. I’m getting you a bodyguard. And I’m going to see that detective to get him to tell me everything.”

  “Are you crazy?” I yell, jumping up to face him. “He’s not going to tell you anything because there’s nothing to tell. And you can forget about the bodyguard. I can handle it. I’m not a damn wallflower.”

  “I know you’re not, but for crying out loud, Allegra, I want you safe, especially if you don’t know who sent them to you.”

  “Then you can have Charles drive me everywhere, or hire another driver. I don’t care. But no bodyguard, Davison. I mean it. I want my life to remain as normal as possible,” I insist.

  He sighs at me in exasperation, running his hands through his hair. “Fine, whatever you want.”

  I watch as he steps closer to me, taking me in his arms. I look up into his beautiful face and his emerald eyes.

  He smiles. “You’re one stubborn woman, you know that?”

  “You’re just learning that now, Harvard?” I grin at him.

  He looks at me solemnly. “I’ve missed you calling me that.”

  “Hmm,” I wonder aloud. “Did you…”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “It’s nothing. When I was in the hospital, I was sleeping at one point and I could’ve sworn I heard you talking to me.”

  “You did, huh?” His eyebrows rise suspiciously. “What was I saying?”

  “Oh, nothing important.”

  “Really?” He presses his lips together, smirking. “That’s too bad.”

  I smile knowingly, then let out a loud yawn. “I think I should get some rest. I’ll get my coat.”

  I start to walk away, but he tugs my hand, pulling me back to him. I look into his eyes, full of expectation.

  “I want you to stay with me tonight. We won’t do anything, as much as it’ll kill me not to. I just want you next to me so I can hold you. I’ve missed having you in my bed.”

  “How can I turn down such a tempting invitation?” I tease him.

  “You can’t,” he says, scooping me up into his arms as I gasp in surprise, allowing myself to laugh for the first time in days.

  “Davison?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “I’m glad you know everything.”

  He kisses me gently on the lips. “Me too, Venus. Me too. Just promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you’ll never leave me again.”

  I smile, then kiss him again. “I promise, Harvard.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I turn around in Davison’s bed the next morning, I come face-to-face with quite a sight.

  He’s lying on his stomach, his dark hair tousled, his mouth open and audibly snoring.

  Perfect blackmail material.

  But I won’t get my phone. I’m just enjoying the view of his muscled back, and his chiseled biceps holding tightly on to his pillow. His tanned body contrasts against the creamy white of his Egyptian cotton sheets.

  I climb onto him, straddling his lower back. I start stroking his skin with my fingernails, slowly, up and down, following the curves of his muscles.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” I whisper, leaning down to plant soft kisses on him.

  I hear Davison mumble. “Why would I want to do that when I have a gorgeous creature sitting on top of me and making me all hot thanks to her skilled mouth?”

  “Because we have something important to do this morning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We need to have make-up sex.”

  He turns his head as far as he can to look back at me. He’s got that glint in his eyes, the one that says he’s about to take me and fuck me until I scream.

  “I love the way you think,” he growls.

  I quickly disentangle myself from his hips, allowing him to flip over. He pulls me back onto him so I’m stretched out over his long, hard body. He tugs me down, his lips on mine, prying them open. I instantly accept his tongue, needing to taste it so desperately. I suck him into me as deeply as I can. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing into him. We’re both mewling loudly with desire. In a flash, he sits up, positioning me onto his lap. His engorged cock bumps against my belly.

  “Ride me, baby. Hard,” he commands with a raw grunt.

  “Oh, fuck yes…I want you so much,” I groan, dying to have him inside me.

  I feel his fingers searching for my slit, holding my lips open to get inside me. His cock enters my wet pussy, so easily, so smoothly.

  We moan at the same time from the feel of our bodies joining. I look into his eyes, dark and hooded. Our eyes bore into each other’s, sensing just how aroused we are. I cup his face with my hands, inserting my right thumb into his hot mouth. Our gazes remain fixed as he sucks on it, making my pussy even wetter. My heart is pounding in my chest, reveling in the feel of my breasts pushing up against his sculpted chest.

  Oh God, how I want him.

  I can’t keep still. I start riding him, his throbbing cock clenched tightly by my sex. It feels glorious having him inside me again after so long. Once we find our rhythm, my curvy hips meeting his deep thrusts, I buck on top of him. I’m riding him hard, just as he demanded of me. Davison, a raw, primal beast with dark hair and green eyes whose desire for me makes me breathless, pushes me to the edge.

  “Fuck, baby. You are so beautiful like this,” he rasps, his eyes widened in awe.

  My head lolls back in ecstasy, groaning, “Yes, Davison…I love your beautiful cock inside me.”

  I feel his lips on my breast, biting, then licking my nipple. Shivers run up and down my body.

  “Please don’t stop! Don’t stop!” I beg.

  He shifts and angles his penis so it rubs against my clit, sending me spiraling as I move with him.

  I’m getting so close…closer and closer…my body begins to shudder violently.

  I scream out Davison’s name as I come, milking his pulsing cock. His cum spurts into me as he explodes, a deep growl of release roaring from his mouth.

  Sated, we fall back together onto the bed. We stretch out, languorously facing each other. Davison strokes my hair, smiling at me. I wrap my arm around his waist.

  He kisses me softly. “Mmmm. I wouldn’t mind spending all my mornings doing that with you. My girlfriend comes up with the best ideas,” he purrs.

  “I have my moments.” I smile. “Do you have to go into work soon?”

  “Nope. It pays to be the boss on days like this. How are you feeling?”

  “Sore.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “Oh God! Did I hurt you?”

  I run my hand over the rough stubble on his cheek. “No, baby. It’s a good sore. Like post-coital sore.”

  “Oh, really? So I did that to you.” He smirks, his eyes blazing with pride.

  I roll my eyes. “God, that’s such a guy reaction. And just for that, Mr. Berkeley, you’re going to prepare appropriate sustenance for your woman while she’s in the shower.”

  “At your service, Venus.”

  We both rise from the bed. Davison pulls out the sweats I wore last time so I have something to wear. I start to head for the bathroom when he calls out to me. “Oh, and Miss Orsini…”

  I turn to look at my sexy boyfriend.

  He smolders at me. “When you’re done with those, don’t put them in the hamper. I want to be able to smell you when I put those on again.”

  * * *

  For the next two weeks, I attempt to get my life back to normal as much
as I can. The only obstacles I face in this task are the two people I love the most—my father and my boyfriend. They are driving me insane. I’m being treated like an invalid, and I’m losing my mind.

  The one person who doesn’t treat me with kid gloves is Luciana, bless her. She knows what not being able to practice one’s passion does to a person. If I can’t sing, then I’m not a whole person. She comes over and rehearses with me. She plays the upright piano in my living room, first practicing the scales, then singing arias that aren’t too heavy. But we don’t sing the “Flower Duet.” That’s still too painful for me.

  I also find comfort at school. All of my professors were informed about the accident, and they cut me some slack, which I appreciate. But I’m determined to build up my strength, so I have some private tutorials with Signora Pavoni and Professor Waltz, who are incredibly patient as we work together to get my vocals back to perfect condition—as perfect as they can be, that is.

  Work also serves as a distraction from the other parts of my life. When I’m home, Papa hovers over me. Davison watches me like a hawk at work, whenever we’re at his apartment, or when we go out. I know they’re acting like this because they care for me, but it stifles me at times. I envision bringing them together in some sort of intervention, basically telling them to back the hell off me, but I know that their counterargument would be exactly that—that they’re doing this because they need to know I’m safe. So I let them hover.

  One evening, in the middle of the dinner rush, I’m hanging up a coat when I hear an audible gasp from the patrons in the front room. I rush to the counter and see Elias Crawford, the face of Le Bistro, walk into the restaurant, his head held high, a wide grin on his face. I’d heard his recovery was going well, but I didn’t know he was expected back so soon. He looks impeccable as always, with his hair neatly groomed, his Armani suit and tie freshly pressed. Everyone starts applauding his entrance as he walks straight up to the hostess and kisses her twice on her cheeks, shaking William’s hand, moving on to Henry, our new bartender. I love that he greets his staff first.

  As I wait my turn, I notice how thin he’s become. The heart attack must have taken a lot out of him. His suit doesn’t hang on him, probably because he’s had it taken in. But even though his eyes still have that same spark in them, his face is more gaunt, and one can tell he’s just gone through some sort of health crisis.

  I’m clapping along with everyone else when a strong hand attached to an arm wrapped in light gray flannel clasps my arm.

  “Hi, baby.”

  I look up into Davison’s eyes. His smile warms my entire body.

  “Did you know about this?” I ask.

  “William said there was a possibility he’d be stopping by tonight. He said Elias is eager to get back into his old routine.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  I glance at him again, and I know without a doubt that the resigned look on my face reflects his. It means that Davison’s time as acting co-manager of Le Bistro will soon be coming to an end.

  “Yeah,” he murmurs his reply to my nonverbalized question. “But I’m still going to have Charles drive you home every night.”

  “Davison, you don’t—”

  His jaw clenches. “Yes, I do. It’s nonnegotiable, Allegra. End of discussion.”

  When he has that look on his face, I know arguing with him is pointless.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  Before I can say something else, Elias appears in front of us. He wraps Davison in a huge bear hug.

  “Davison, I can’t thank you enough for taking care of my home away from home while I was gone.”

  “Happy to do it, Elias,” he says, smiling.

  Mr. Crawford turns to me, taking my hand and leaning over the open space to give me a peck on the cheek. “Allegra, I heard you had an unfortunate accident. I hope you’re right as rain now.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir. I am. I’m very glad to be back.”

  “Excellent. And as for the two of you,” he says, pointing at Davison and me, “don’t think anything got past me while I was laid up like some old fart.”

  My stomach sinks. “Sir, I…”

  He pats my hand. “I’m teasing, my dear. I’m just glad to see my godson so happy. Davison, join William and me in the office in a few minutes, would you? We need to talk business.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be there shortly,” Davison replies with a nod.

  I breathe a sigh of relief after Mr. Crawford walks away, acknowledging more customers as he makes his way to the back of the room.

  “I think I stopped breathing there for a second,” I admit.

  “You worry too much, baby.” He caresses my cheek. “I knew he’d be okay with us. I’m his godson, after all.”

  “Yeah, nice of you not sharing that with me, by the way,” I say, pinching his arm.

  “Ow!” he winces. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Anything else you’re keeping from me? What famous New Yorker is your godmother? Lady Liberty?”

  “Ha-ha. What a funny girlfriend I have.” He kisses me quickly but firmly on the lips. “Gotta go. Can’t keep my godfather waiting.”

  I watch as Davison makes his way to the office. I shake my head and smile when I notice a man staring at me from the bar. He’s sitting where the brass railing curls around to the side, his knees tucked under it, but his face is set on me. His large hands are too big for the crystal tumbler he’s holding containing an amber liquid, probably whiskey. I’m used to getting looks from customers sometimes, a smile here and there. As long as they don’t touch me, I don’t mind if someone looks at me.

  But this man is different. He isn’t smiling. He’s not even leering. His eyes are cold. He has a shaved head and resembles a bodybuilder, the type of man who doesn’t look like he has a neck. He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans, the jacket much too small for his body. And he won’t stop staring at me.

  A wave of chills shakes my body. I step back into my space to get my sweater, buttoning it almost to the top. I can’t get warm fast enough. When I come back, the man is gone.

  Marcus, the sommelier, just happens to pass by me at that moment, heading down to the wine cellar.

  “Hey, Marcus!”

  He stops, his brows furrowed.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie? You look like something just scared the crap out of you.”

  “I’m okay. Could you do me a favor and ask Henry who the guy was in the leather jacket at the bar?”

  “Uh-oh. I’m going to tell Davison on you,” he teases me.

  “No, no, it’s not like that. Please, Marcus,” I ask with a more serious tone.

  Marcus puts his hand over mine. “Hey, are you really okay?”

  “Yes, I swear. Could you just…”

  “Of course. That couple with the attitude can wait for their damn Dom Pérignon. Anything for you.”

  Marcus steps over to the bar and gets Henry’s attention. I see them glance in my direction, then back to each other as they engage in discussion. After a few minutes, Marcus heads back to me.

  “Okay, the guy paid cash for his drink, so Henry didn’t get a name. He spoke in a rough accent, definitely from the city. He didn’t say anything to Henry except when he ordered his drink and paid for it.”

  I nod. “Okay. Thanks, Marcus.”

  “Anytime, doll. Now I’ll get that Dom for those snots.”

  Despite the sweater I’m wearing, I rub my arms with my hands, desperate for warmth to make the lingering chill dissipate from my body.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have always loved the aria “O mio babbino caro” from Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi. The character Lauretta sings to her father about her love for Rinuccio and the tensions it has caused between their families. She wants to buy her wedding ring and then threatens to throw herself off the Ponte Vecchio bridge in Florence into the Arno River.

  It’s a popular aria, featured in one of my favorite films, A Room with a View, sung by Dame K
iri Te Kanawa, which I saw ages ago. But it resounds with me now more than ever. I think of my parents who come from different backgrounds in Italy, northern and southern Italy being different in every sense from dialect to economy. My father’s parents objected to his marriage to my mother, even more than his decision to immigrate to America. As a result, I have never been close to them, which my parents and I always regretted.

  And now that I’m with Davison, it’s as if art has truly imitated life and come full circle, not just because it’s the aria I was humming when we first met. Granted, his mother liked me from the start. His father is still indifferent to me, but I don’t let it bother me. At the other end of the spectrum, my father worries about me being involved with Davison because he’s afraid I will somehow get hurt. I never told Davison that my father wanted me to break up with him after my fall. However, when Papa sees how much he cares for me, thankfully he doesn’t bring that up anymore.

  I’m singing the aria now in one of the rehearsal rooms at school with Derek, the man who served as the accompanist at Mrs. Berkeley’s event. I practice as often as I can in preparation for our graduation recital. I’ve decided on this aria, but I still need one more. Lucy is singing Wagner, of course.

  As I bring the aria to a close, Derek smiles. “Brava, darlin’. That was amazing.”

  I give him a slight bow. “Thank you. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” he reassures me.

  I laugh at his blunt compliment when the door opens, and Lucy pokes her head in, her blonde hair in a messy topknot. We’re all dressing casually these days for school with rehearsals now starting for the final-year students, and booking time in a rehearsal room has practically become a blood sport.

  “Hey, guys. You finished?” she asks.

  “Yup, that’s all for today,” Derek replies as I drink from my water bottle.

  “Good. I’m starving. Let’s get a bite.”

  “Sounds good,” I say as I gather my things. On the way out, I give Derek a firm hug.

  “Same time next week?”

  “Works for me, darlin’. See you then.”