Page 49 of Casanova LLC

“And then…you know.”

“It’s yours to tell.”

“And then…he’d take me to the…to this utility closet. Where he somehow would have already put a surprisingly nice mattress on the floor. And lit candles. And rose petals. And my favorite soda.” She rolled her eyes. “So romantic.”

“Was it romantic? Was he? His lovemaking?”

She studied the ceiling. “It would vary, depending on my mood. Sometimes, yes, he was romantic. Sometimes gentle. Sometimes he couldn’t control himself.”

“Is this when you would use your pillow?”

She blushed and her hands covered her face yet again. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

“Hey. New rule: you can either touch me or touch yourself. Below the neck.”

She brought her hands down, to my wrists. Encircled them. She answered with a nod.

I wanted to ask if pool boy had ended up being her first. Or if Richie Rich had stolen that from her, too. But there was a reason I didn’t ask women about their first time, only how they’d imagined it. The fantasy was always better than the reality.

“Just one more question. So I can properly compete.”

“Yes?”

“What’s your favorite soda?”

“Dad’s Root Beer.”

I nodded and ran my thumbs over her hip bones. “Fancy.”

“I normally drank the grocery store brand. That’s all we could afford. Dad’s was for special occasions. Like losing your virginity.”

We grinned at each other. We had arrived somewhere. The combined massage-conversation had been a journey and now what? Where to next? Her eyes settled on my face, with a renewed energy. She answered the question for me. “Alessandro.” She squeezed my right wrist. “Move your hand a little inward, please.” All I had to do was fan out my fingers and they were directly over her pubic bone. She exhaled in pleasure.

I pressed ever so gently down and felt her heartbeat come alive at her center. I dropped soft kisses to each cloaked hip.

“You need to…step away,” she breathed. “Or there will be nothing left for the orgy.”

I hoped she was kidding.

I didn’t want to share her. I didn’t want to take her to this ball, to be petted and licked and squeezed by others. I hadn’t wanted to last night, when she’d suggested it, but now, after the day we’d had, after the last hour we’d shared…

I removed my hand, for the moment, and moved to the top of the table. Slid my palms under her shoulder blades. Her lips separated and her eyes closed. My thumbs worked the column of her neck. I stared at her mouth.

“And later on?” I asked it against my better judgment.

“Later on?”

“What did you fantasize about later on? After you were married?” I could sense, could feel, the moment the wheels in her mind started to spin. The question seemed to propel her backward, not forward. But I wanted her answer. “The truth, Claire. No one’s here to judge you.”

She stared up at the ceiling. Again. “You.”

My thumbs found the back of her skull and I pressed. “Me? I would never judge you?—”

“No: you. I fantasized about you.”

I hadn’t expected that answer. I hadn’t, for all my expertise, control, jadedness, been prepared for that answer. “What about me?”

“That I…went with you that night. That you did things to me.”

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