Devoted to Him

by Sofia Tate

  I’m now fully crying. It’s the ugly cry, and with Davison’s eyes turning moist, it’s just getting worse. But I keep as still as I possibly can…

  “I love you, Allegra. Will you marry me?”

  I nod my head so hard that it starts to hurt, but I don’t care. “Yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

  I slide from my seat to the floor on my knees to join Davison, tackling him as I collapse on top of him. Our mouths find each other, kissing each other in pure, unmitigated happiness, knowing that we are going to be together for the rest of our lives. The security of that knowledge suddenly heightens my need for him. I want to give everything of myself to him, to show him the gratitude I have for him coming into my life and the love for him that has only grown with time, all of the things that words cannot adequately express.

  I jump up from the floor as Davison’s eyes widen confusedly. “What the—”

  When he sees me unhooking the bustier and undoing my skirt, he only says one word to me in a low, raw timbre that moistens my pussy: “Hurry.”

  An audible groan escapes his mouth when I’m left naked, except for my stockings, garter belt, and the stiletto boots. I carefully step over until I’m standing over him, one foot on either side of his head, my pussy bare and on display for him as I watch him below and await his next command.

  “Pussy. Now…” he grunts.

  I obey him, easing my knees down to the floor. His strong, firm hands grab my ass as I’m pushed forward, my palms flat on the carpet to steady myself.

  I hear him inhale my scent, and then he devours me wholly with his mouth and tongue, sucking and licking and nipping, sending me spiraling until I think I’m going to pass out from his ministrations. He takes all of me, moaning and groaning as he feasts on me like a wild beast. It is pure fucking ecstasy.

  “Oh God, Davison…yes! Fuck yes!” I scream, unraveling with every second of his mouth eating me out.

  My body begins to shudder. I dig my hands into the fibers of the carpet, bearing down on them to keep me aloft so Davison can finish his meal. The heat from the carpet fabric begins to burn my skin as I finally shout out in release, my cream gushing out over his mouth and chin.

  I try to keep myself upright, but before I can steady myself, Davison whips me up and onto my back. His mouth dives onto mine as we kiss each other hard, our teeth knocking together. I taste myself on him, wanting to absorb every last taste of me from his mouth that’s combined with his.

  Suddenly, he pulls back. “Lock those fucking boots around my waist, baby,” he growls at me.

  I do as he asks, and in an instant, he plunges his cock inside me, swollen and hard as steel. He thrusts into me again and again, our skin slapping together and our raw groans the only sounds in the room. My fingernails dig into his rock-hard ass, pushing him farther into me, telling him silently to go harder and faster. He obeys, increasing his speed as his shaft pummels me. He’s never fucked me like this, our bodies in total sync, and I don’t ever want him to stop.

  With my head thrown back, I hear him command, “Look at me, baby,” and when I do, he pinches my clit, sending me reeling with my back arching and screaming his name from my lips in sacred worship.

  He finally falls from utter exhaustion to the floor next to me. He scoops my head with one hand, cradling it while the other collapses like a boulder onto my chest, heavy and sated.

  Our panting breaths echo in the wide space. I gain enough strength to turn my head to his, our eyes softened from our mutual release.

  “I just have one thing to say to you, future Mrs. Davison Cabot Berkeley,” he rasps.

  I smile. “What?”

  “We’re keeping the karaoke machine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Davison

  Six months later…

  Leaning my elbows on the edge of my family’s private box at the Met, I hold my hands clasped together pressed to my mouth as if in prayer with shivers running up and down my body, listening in awe to the lyrical voice that is booming off the acoustics right now in this iconic space.

  My fiancée, Allegra Orsini, is onstage, performing her second aria of the afternoon at the Grand Finals Concert of the Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions. She is singing her beloved “Sì, mi chiamano Mimi.” Dressed in a one-shouldered black gown that accentuates her curves to perfection with her hair pulled back into the low chignon that she prefers, she is a vision of beauty that lifts my heart to the fucking rafters because she is mine.

  The aria comes to an end. Suddenly, the audience erupts into cheers of “Brava!” I jump to my feet to shout out for her, as do the rest of the occupants of the box—Allegra’s father; Luciana and Tomas; and Allegra’s two mentors, Signora Pavoni and La Diva, who flew in from Milan specifically to see her apprentice perform on the Met stage. I watch as Allegra bows, placing her hand over her heart, first in thanks to the crowd, then to the conductor. She tilts her head in the direction of the box, blowing us a kiss, then kissing her engagement ring, a gesture to me, telling me how much she loves me.

  “Now what happens?” I ask aloud.

  “The judges go backstage to decide the winners,” Signora Pavoni informs us. “It takes some time, so the guest artist sings one aria to keep the audience occupied.”

  “How many winners are chosen?” Mr. Orsini wants to know.

  “Five or six out of the ten finalists. Allegra has some competition, but that one mezzo-soprano—”

  “Dio mio! She was horrible!” La Diva declares.

  Luciana, Tomas, and Signora Pavoni all nod their heads in agreement. We fall into a hush as the guest artist, a tenor, is introduced to sing an aria from Tosca.

  While the others sit in their seats rapt in attention, I can’t focus on anything. I pull out my phone to text Allegra. I know she won’t be checking her phone. She’s probably pacing the floor backstage with the other finalists. But I type out a text anyway:

  You were amazing, baby! You fucking OWNED that stage! I am so proud of you! I love you so damn much!

  Finally, the tenor finishes and bows to the crowd. He joins the host at the podium and starts a light banter with him to kill time while we await the judges’ decision. What they’re saying is all white noise to me. Allegra has to win. She just has to. The only time I wanted something to happen this badly was when I begged for Allegra to be rescued when that asshole Morandi kidnapped her.

  A man suddenly steps out from the wings and hands a folded piece of paper to the host. The crowd falls silent. The winners, the host announces, will be read in no particular order.

  A tenor and countertenor are declared winners, followed by a soprano, a bass-baritone, and another tenor.

  One more name. My knees begin to jump nervously. Allegra’s father grabs my arm, clamping onto it like a vise.

  Please God, let it be Allegra. Please, please, please.

  “Allegra Orsini!”

  I scream, “YES!” as I shoot to my feet, joined by the rest of Allegra’s loved ones. We hoot and holler for her and cry openly, probably violating every ounce of Metropolitan Opera House decorum, but none of us gives a shit. With La Diva in my box, we are bona fide and nobody would dare tell us to settle down.

  Allegra steps forward to take a bow, blowing all of us a kiss. She joins the other winners for a mutual bow, then the other finalists come out together one last time as they all join hands and acknowledge the applause from the audience, walking off into the wings together.

  I smile as all I hear around me is sniffling, watching as La Diva digs out tissues and hands them to everyone to wipe the happy tears from their faces. We start gathering our things to go to the private reception for the finalists one floor above on the Grand Tier level.

  A guard checks our passes as we walk into the roped-off area. Waiters walk by with trays stacked with flutes of champagne, but just as I’m about to grab one, a rousing round of applause goes up from the guests as the winners enter the party. Allegra spots us right away and runs ov
er to us. Her father is closest to her and embraces her tightly, kissing her on both cheeks. They exchange animated words in Italian as La Diva and Signora Pavoni join in, hugging and kissing her.

  I patiently wait my turn to be with her, but I don’t have to for much longer, because I spot her scanning the room, and finally, she reaches my gaze, her face breaking into a huge smile, fresh tears appearing in her eyes when she sees me. We quickly make our way over to each other, reaching our arms out and immediately clamping our mouths on each other, kissing long and deep. I don’t give a fuck if anyone is staring. This is my woman, who just won a major prize in the opera world, and I am so fucking proud of her.

  When we pull back, she hugs me firmly, nestling her head in the crook of my neck.

  “I saw your text, Harvard,” she whispers into my ear.

  “I didn’t think you’d have time to read it.”

  “I was getting nervous waiting backstage after I finished, so I fixed my makeup and checked my phone. Sorry I didn’t reply.”

  I rear back in astonishment. “Baby, you have nothing to apologize for. I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, but I always am.”

  She smiles sweetly at me. “I know, Davison.”

  Our private moment is interrupted by Luciana, who slams into Allegra, practically tackling her. “Oh my God, Alli! You were amazeballs! I’m so proud of you!”

  Allegra reaches for my hand once she unwraps herself from Luciana’s embrace. “Thanks! I was so nervous singing the first aria, but then when I sang Mimi, I just knew I’d nailed it.”

  “You totally did! And that mezzo was hideous!”

  Allegra looks around her. “Christ, Lucy!” she hisses. “She might be around here somewhere.”

  “Who gives a shit? She lost and you won,” Luciana replies, blunt as ever.

  Tomas comes over to join us. He gives Allegra a congratulatory hug, then Luciana instantly wraps her arm around him and gives him a quick kiss on the lips.

  “We have the best news,” she announces. “Can I tell them?”

  “As if I could stop you,” he answers her with a smile.

  I can’t help but smirk.

  That boy is whipped. And I should know. Allegra’s done the same to me.

  “Tomas is going to debut in a featured role in Don Giovanni at the Prague State Opera, and I’m going with him!” she announces.

  Our mouths drop at her news. I hold out my hand to Tomas. “Congratulations. Allegra and I will have to come to Prague to see you on opening night,” I tell him.

  He nods in appreciation. “I vould like that very much, Mr. Berkeley.”

  “And while we’re in Europe, we’re going to travel and I’m going to audition for lots of festivals and opera companies,” Luciana adds to her big news. “Tomas and I are compiling an itinerary already, and I want your input too, Alli.”

  “That’s great, Lucy! Of course I’ll help.” Allegra hugs her. “We need to get together before you leave anyway, for one last celebration.”

  “Definitely,” she replies excitedly.

  As much as I don’t mind her friends’ company, I need to be alone with Allegra because I have something I need to show her.

  “Would you mind terribly if I drag Allegra away for a moment?” I interrupt.

  “Of course we don’t,” Luciana replies, winking at me.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  I grab Allegra, pulling her behind me, avoiding every person who wants her attention. I refuse to stop for anyone.

  I quickly make our way down the red carpeted stairs to the ground floor.

  “Hey, Harvard, would you mind slowing down? These aren’t exactly ballet flats I’m wearing,” she remarks in reference to her black stiletto heels, of which I took great notice while she was onstage.

  “Almost there,” I reply over my shoulder.

  I guide us around the throng of people in the lobby, exiting through the glass doors. I head straight for the black marble fountain in the center of the plaza.

  “Okay, Davison.” She huffs out of breath. “First of all, I’m wearing a gown and I’m freezing.”

  I remove my suit jacket and watch as she puts it on.

  “That’s a great look on you,” I tell her admiringly.

  She smiles as she crosses her arms and locks her eyes with mine. “Second, what’s so important that you had to drag me out here to tell me when it’s much warmer inside?”

  I smirk as I step closer to her, brushing her right tit as I reach for the business card holder in the breast pocket of my jacket.

  “Well, that was convenient,” she remarks, watching my hand.

  “Funny fiancée. I was getting this,” I say as I hold up the metal object to her face.

  “And what’s inside there?” she asks curiously.

  I pull a card out to show it to her. With a shit-eating grin, I watch as she reads the inscription—

  THE DCB GROUP

  DAVISON CABOT BERKELEY—CHAIRMAN AND CEO

  Her eyes pop out as she takes it in. “Is this your new company?”

  “Yup,” I reply proudly.

  “Oh my God, Davison, I’m so proud of you!” she screeches, jumping into my arms. “I knew you’d create one eventually, but I didn’t want to be a nuisance and ask you when it would happen.”

  I rear back so I can look into her shining brown eyes. “Baby, you could never be a nuisance to me.”

  She pauses for a moment, as if she were heavy in thought. “What is it?” I ask worriedly.

  “You know, this is where I ran to after I saw you with Ashton that night at the opera when I thought you had lied to me.”

  My heart drops at the mention of what happened after that night, the time when I thought I’d lost my chance with her. “Oh, Allegra, you don’t have to think about that anymore,” I tell her soothingly.

  “No, Davison. I’m okay about it now, because this card,” she says pointedly, waving it in the air to stress her point, “this card that represents a new chapter in your life, and it reminds me of the night we first met. The night you came to retrieve your lost driving glove from me, the one that has your initials stitched on it, just like this embossed card.”

  I stroke her cheeks tenderly with the pads of my thumbs. “We’ve really come full circle, haven’t we, baby?”

  She nods. “Yes, we have. And I’ll always be grateful for taking the job over there at Le Bistro,” she says, pointing at the legendary restaurant, across the street from Lincoln Center, “because otherwise we never would’ve met.”

  I smile. “Thank God for coat checks.”

  “Indeed.” She steps forward and embraces me tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Davison.”

  “Just as I am of you, Venus.”

  I unwrap myself from her grasp, first reaching for her right hand to kiss the finger that’s wearing the ruby ring I gave her in Venice, then her left one to run my lips over her ring finger, the one wearing my engagement ring.

  “Like I said, my love…we’re shatterproof.”

  Her eyes soften at my words. She leans in to kiss me fully and deeply as I quickly reciprocate. In the middle of the plaza, with the cacophony of the city that we love and that brought us together surrounding us, we kiss and kiss and kiss, oblivious to everything except each other.

  About the Author

  Sofia Tate grew up in Maplewood, New Jersey, the oldest of three children in a bilingual family. She was raised on ’70s disaster films and ’80s British New Wave music and classic TV miniseries. Her love for reading started when she received a set of Judy Blume books from her aunt when she was ten. She discovered erotic romance thanks to Charlotte Featherstone. She loves both writing and reading erotic romance. She graduated from Marymount College in Tarrytown, New York, with a degree in international studies and a minor in Italian. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University. She has lived in London and Prague. Sofia currently resides in New York City.

  Learn more at:

  sof
iatate.com

  Twitter: @sofiatateauthor

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  Please turn the page for an excerpt of the first book in Davison & Allegra’s erotic romance

  Breathless for Him

  Available now!

  Chapter One

  Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  I watch as the last of the patrons don their camel-hair coats and calf-length sable furs. Before they leave, the owner makes sure to shake each of their hands. As they exit, the black velvet curtain that covers the front door swishes like a whisper against the marble floor, shielding the interior of the restaurant from the chilly November air. They shuffle their way out to begin the search for their town cars, a fleet of which stand outside on Broadway, engines idling, waiting to be claimed.

  I’m standing inside my work space, which happens to be the coat-check room of Le Bistro, a restaurant that is an institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Like Sardi’s in the Theater District, Le Bistro is its equivalent, except it serves the opera buffs, cineastes, and ballet lovers of Lincoln Center. Its owner is Elias Crawford, one of New York City’s most well-known restaurateurs, known for his charm, sophistication, and meticulous attention to detail.