Without warning, he grabs my ass and hoists me into his arms. I coil my legs around his muscled torso, locking my ankles together. I cry out as he sinks himself deeper into me, using the wall as support. With each thrust, my entire body shifts up and down along the wall. The back of my head senses every crack and crevice of the tiles behind it. Tomas’s grunts grow louder, more animalistic, which only makes me wetter.
I am cresting the wave. His cock rubs my clit once, twice, and then I scream out in such pure release, the orgasm taking hold of me over as I ride it, my body vibrating from the sensation. With one last thrust, Tomas comes, his entire body shuddering. His head falls back and I can see the veins on his neck bulging, so pronounced against his flesh.
He slowly releases me from his grip, gently placing me back standing onto the floor of the tub. I loosely hold my arms around his waist. “I needed that,” I pant into his neck.
“We both did,” Tomas mumbles into my ear.
“Agreed.” I pull back and run my hands over his broad chest. “I still love The Wall.”
We grin at each other, so thoroughly sated, glowing from the moment…
Knock, knock, knock.
“Mommy! Are you okay? I heard you shouting. I’m hungry! And Mimi is playing with your makeup,” Marika, our youngest child by two minutes, informs us.
I can feel Tomas’s body shaking from laughter, just like mine is doing. “Okay, honey, we’ll be right out,” I call out to her.
“We need to do that more often,” Tomas insists.
“It’s not about quantity, Prague Boy. It’s about quality,” I counter.
“I would disagree.”
“That’s because you’re a man, baby. Now, let’s get out there before Marika uses my credit card to order a pizza.”
“She’s only five,” he reminds me as he quickly ducks his head under the water to wet his hair.
“That kid is smart as a whip. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
He gives me a quick peck on the lips. “I know. And Mimi would just tell her to call room service.”
I laugh so hard. “They’re amazing, aren’t they?”
A solemn look crosses his face. “Thank you, Luciana.”
I caress his face with my fingertips. “For what?”
“For giving me another chance. And for our beautiful girls. Sometimes I feel guilty that you gave up your dream of being an opera singer for our family, and—”
I clamp my hand over his mouth. “I gave up nothing. This is the dream I never knew I wanted. You, the girls, traveling the world with you, watching you sing your heart out. I’m so proud to be Mrs. Tomas Novotny. Plus, I can never leave your side because otherwise some opera groupie will throw herself at you and I’ll be forced to cut a bitch.”
He grin widely back at me. “You are such a New Yorker, my love.”
“That’ll never change. Now get your ass out there before they start playing around with the remote and find the porn channels.”
My husband kisses me quickly and steps out of the shower. I quickly snatch the curtain back. “Hey, baby…”
Tomas turns back to me, his broad, muscled chest still glistening wet from the shower. “Yes?” he asks.
“Thank you for being my dream come true.”
He kisses me one last time. “My pleasure.”
I watch as he heads for the door wearing only his boxers, glancing back at me to give me a quick wink.
I start to lather my hair with shampoo as I listen to my husband arguing with our children.
I smile to myself.
I fucking love my life.
Please see the next page for an excerpt from Sofia Tate’s debut novel and find out how Davison and Allegra’s journey began. 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.
Dressed in my standard uniform of a white long-sleeved blouse with French cuffs, black trousers, and black ballet flats, my dark brown hair done up in its usual chignon, I turn and take in my surroundings. Technically, my work space is a closet, lined with clothing rods for coats and jackets and shelves for handbags and briefcases. Since I began working there, I have checked an eclectic collection of items, from a famous rock star’s red leather jacket pockmarked with cigarette burns to a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk that took up most of the traffic pattern.
Lola, the statuesque hostess, pokes her head in the door. “We’re done, Allegra. You can start closing up.”
I nod. I begin to wrap the plastic check numbers in an elastic band, stowing them into the shoe box that I use as a Lost and Found. I count my tips and tuck them into my purse.
As I take one last survey of the room, I spot two objects on the floor. One is a black-and-white silk scarf, the name “Hermès” imprinted in the lower right-hand corner.
The other is a man’s driving glove, brown lambskin, cashmere-lined, with initials stitched on the inseam—DCB.
I stow both items in my Lost and Found shoe box. Perhaps the owners will collect them in the next few days.
* * *
“Did you hear about Davison’s latest venture? He’s flying to China to check out some new company that’s doing amazing stuff with voice technology.”
“Ha! ‘Voice technology,’ my ass! The only voice he’s concerned about getting away from belongs to that shrew girlfriend of his, Ashton. She’s got a hot body, but she’s a total bitch—at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
That’s what gossip is to me. Hearsay. It’s common for someone to approach me while I’m working, offering me monetary compensation for any kernel of gossip that involves a celebrity. Because of its trendy status and location, Le Bistro attracts everyone from politicians to film stars to opera divas, basically anyone who’s ever appeared in Vanity Fair. I knew since I began working here six months ago that if someone really wanted the truth about a scandal, the people to eavesdrop on were the doctors and lawyers who came into the restaurant. But I treat my place of work as a confessional; whatever I overhear will never be passed on to a third party.
The two men retrieving their coats are discussing the couple whose names and faces were featured almost every day on Page Six—Davison Cabot Berkeley, the Manhattan billionaire and heir to the Berkeley Holdings fortune, and Ashton Lane Canterbury, the heiress of the Canterbury family. Since they’re the “it couple” of Manhattan, their histories are well known thanks to the tabloids and business pages. They’re childhood friends. He has the proper pedigree: age thirty-one, prepped at Exeter, undergrad and MBA from Harvard, while she went to Miss Porter’s and Wellesley.
A match made in WASP heaven.
It’s funny, though, because every time I see their photo in the paper, she always looks much happier than he does, as if he would rather be anyplace else than with her. My life is far removed from the circles they travel in, but seeing such a handsome man so miserable with the woman he supposedly loves, I wonder if he is truly in love with her. I’m twenty-four, a butcher’s daughter, but I don’t envy their social or financial status in society.