The Italian

“Why can’t we just go tomorrow?” I ask. Damn it, I want a whole heap of bone-shattering make-up sex first. Not to be moving frigging house.

“Olivia, I want to start our new life together in Como… tonight. Our first night together will be in our bed, not your cheap hotel room, and not in my apartment, but in our new home.”

I smile over at him.

“What?” He smirks.

“I was just horny, that’s all.”

He throws his head back and laughs out loud as if shocked by my statement. “Don’t worry, you will be well and truly fucked tonight… but in my bed, and on my terms.”

I smile as I look through the windscreen in front of us.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“I’m thinking that you’re very bossy, Rici Ferrara.”

“I just know what I want.”

I look over at him. “And what is it that you want?”

“You, bella.” He puts one of my fingers into his mouth and sucks it slowly as his dark eyes hold mine. My sex clenches. “Only you.”

* * *

The cavalcade of cars pulls into a driveway. Huge wrought iron gates greet us, and Enrico stops at the little security house. They open the gates and wave him through. We are at his house in Lake Como—the one he was desperate to get me to right away. At his insistence, we packed up my hotel room life into my suitcase and made our way here.

It’s late—just past 11:00 p.m.

We drive through the gates, up the long driveway, and I peer out the window like a scared child.

“This is your house?” I ask as I feel the confidence drain from me and run down into the car seats. The property is incredible, with manicured gardens and spotlights lighting up the beautiful trees.

“Yes, this is where we will live.”

“Why don’t we just live in Milan?” I frown. It took us an hour to get here.

He smiles over at me. “You’ll see.”

We turn the corner, and I see a stone pillar covered in vines with a large copper sign hanging from it.

Villa Oliviana

I turn to him. “Your house is called Oliviana?”

His eyes dance with delight. “Our house, and yes. This house was the first thing I bought when I took over the family business.”

“After we met?”

His smirk is slow to rise. “The name of the property was why I bought it. It reminded me of a beautiful woman I once met.”

I smile dreamily. Oh, man, could this guy get any swoonier if he tried? “Only a bit fancier than me,” I add. From the back of my mind a little voice whispers

Slow down.

He smiles to himself as we continue up the driveway. At the top of the hill is a gigantic cream-colored house. It’s classically Italian. Out the front is a large, circular driveway with an undercover awning. It’s so grand, it looks like a hotel.

He parks the car undercover, and two men come out. Rico gets out of the car.