Page 4 of The Don's Soulmate

One look at his face that’s all I ask for.

But, the maestro in him doesn’t care for my tears or doesn’t notice them, perhaps. He's the virtuoso, and I'm his instrument. I can’t help liking the way he plays me.

His lips graze my shoulder, making me shiver. I arch my ass up, inviting him deeper, craving his touch, his face forgotten.

"Fuck me harder," I beg, throwing my hips back to meet his thrusts. "Ho bisogno di più." -I need more.

He doesn't disappoint, slamming into me with sheer savagery. Our bodies move in a frantic rhythm, the heat between us building with every thrust. He reaches his hand around my neck, now choking the air, the life out of me and all I can feel is him throbbing to burst free inside me. I forget about air and think of the way his body moves against mine and the way he holds me down.

In a low growl, he commands - "You're going to come for me, Carlotta. You're going to scream my name, and this time, you’re going to give yourself to me completely."

How can I shout it if I don’t know it?But before my mind can trip me up, he moans, choking me harder till I see black. And at the idea of his cum seeping into me, I feel ready to burst.

Pressure builds deep within. I'm so close, clinging to the edge of sweet oblivion. Just a little more…

I'm about to detonate in a mind-shattering climax when a voice cuts through the haze.

"Miss? Excuse me, miss? You need to return your seat to the upright position. We're preparing for landing."

My eyes snap open, and I blink in confusion, my core still throbbing and aching with an unfulfilled need.

What the hell? Was that…? Just a dream.

The stewardess gives me an expectant look before moving on through the first-class aisle. I let out a shaky breath and slowly sat up, my skin flushed and damp with sweat. The vivid erotic dream lingers, stoking the flames of longing inside me. I clench my thighs as I adjust my seat.

I was so close to a sweet release. If only for a blissful moment, to feel complete…with him. This phantom lover of mine has been haunting my dreams for months now.

“Who the hell are you?” I whisper, gazing out the window at the approaching city of Rome.

I feel him around me, alive in my mind, in sultry encounters that leave me aching and yearning for a man I've never known.

The plane door opens, and first-class passengers are requested to disembark first. When I step out of the plane, an all too familiar vice-grip-like feeling builds in my chest because once I exit the airport building, life, as I’ve known it for the past three years, will cease to exist. In Paris, I tasted a freedom I didn’t wish to give up. Here, back in Rome, I know I’d be shackled and bound again.

My house, a fortress, would require any visitors to get clearance a whole day in advance.

I would, for the most of it, not be alone again. I’d be followed through each doorway, empty hallway, and meandering garden path.

And yet, this is home. I sigh, suddenly feeling jealous of the travelers who have the freedom to make choices for themselves. While at it, I should have booked a seat in the back of the economy section of the plane.

Maybe it won’t be so bad this time around, I tell myself. Father and brother trusted me to live in Paris alone for three whole years. They might have come to realize I, and the world around me, can be trusted with my freedom now.

Rome's familiar scents of fresh espresso and sweet pastries greet me as I step out of the airport, pushing my luggage on a trolley. My eyes instantly lock on my father and brother.

It’s hard not to notice them when a convoy of armed guards accompanies them.

“Papa!” I exclaim, my arms outstretched as I rush towards him. He’s rigid as he lets me hug him, the stubble of his beard brushing against my cheek. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes; I've missed him more than words can express. I hardly realized it, given how busy I was with my studies and relishing the freedoms of student life in Paris.

Besides, my father and I have more of a face-to-face relationship. Even when I was younger, he would be gone for months on end, and at most, I’d get a brief phone call bi-weekly.

“How is home? How is everyone?” I ask, still holding his hands.

“All in good time, my child,” he tells me. I smile at that endearment. I’m twenty-four years old. Certainly not achildanymore.

"Welcome home," he whispers, squeezing my hands in return before releasing them.

"Thank you, Papa," I reply.

My brother, Angelo, steps forward, his lips set in that same cold, hard line as my father’s. "How was Paris?" he asks, the grey in his eyes reminding me of many winter nights there.

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