Page 30 of Casanova LLC

It was the bedroom.

Though to call it a bedroom would be limiting its scope.

There was a bed, yes. A large one. An intricately carved four-poster situation, canopied and draped with rich burgundy velvet. It sat atop a platform about eighteen inches off the ground, encircled by one continuous stair on all three sides. Horseshoed.

A bit much for me, honestly. But I’m sure it made most women feel like a princess in a fairy tale.

Not that I was thinking about other women.

More French doors led to a small smoking balcony, once again looking out over the canal. In front of the doors was a two-person soaking tub. A chair next to it. A guitar in a stand next to that.

On the wall opposite the bed, the one shared with the sala, there was a bar. A sweating champagne bucket sat on a stand, a bottle waiting.

Alessandro bent to the mini-fridge and retrieved two champagne coupes, grabbed a towel, and removed the bottle. The sound of shifting ice crackled through the room.

He made quick and quiet work of the cork and poured our glasses as I continued to look around. There was another set of double doors at the back end of the room, which I was sure led to the main hallway at the base of the stairs. And another door that led to—from what I could glimpse through its crack—an opulently-appointed bathroom.

Then there was an armoire that looked like it could break into song in a Disney movie. I assumed its regal façade concealed some baser contents. Some Fifty-Shades-of-Preference-Sheet locked up inside.

My eyes landed on a massage table.

I pointed at it as he brought a glass over to me. I raised a curious eyebrow.

“I’m a licensed masseuse.”

“If you’d mentioned that, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to say yes.”

We lifted our glasses. Clinked them. “I’m glad you did.” His tone was as soft as his gaze.

But the softness was dangerous, too. Just as deadly, in its own way, as the smolder. Especially when he added, “Really glad,” and the way he said it, the particular timbre, the suggestive rumble, so unexpectedly at odds with the casually playful demeanor he’d adopted… I shifted my weight, crossed my legs, and was reminded of the lack of any barrier there.

We sipped.

Stealth. He was stealth. No matter how laid-back he seemed, I shouldn’t completely relax. It was like sharing space with a panther.

In the silence, I pointed at the animated armoire. “What’s in there?”

“Diversions. When wanted.”

I shook my head and made my way toward the bed, looking at the ceiling—more carving and coving—and the walls—plaster. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

I stepped up onto the platform and flung a hand back at the armoire. “All that stuff. Why would anyone need…all that when they have you?”

“Well. Thank you.” He seemed confused.

So I clarified. “It seems to me the vibrators and dildos and butt plugs of the world would be most useful when you’re not around. I mean, okay, flogging requires a partner, but why do you need any of that to begin with?” I was officially rambling. So, of course, I doubled down. “Like, you have this god whose entire job is to give you pleasure, why do you also need whatever the hell is in there?”

He stared at me. Then looked at the armoire. Then back to me. Then he pointed at it. “It’s a TV.”

“Oh. When you said, ‘diversions’—”

“Movies. Reruns. Badly dubbed HGTV.”

My face heated.

Then he pointed where I was standing. “The toys are in there.”

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