The Italian

Rici is lying flat on his back, fast asleep, one hand behind his head and the other safely holding his dick. His black hair is messy against his pillow. His dark eyelashes flutter, and his big red lips part as he inhales. I smile as I watch him.

So peaceful and perfect.

I lie onto my side to face him. My mind goes to last night and the love that we made.

I feel myself blush.

He’s so dirty, and it’s so damn hot.

I’ve never been with anyone even remotely like him.

Never in a million years did I think I would like the things that he does to me. When we have sex, I completely forget who I am.

Because I am his. His to do what he wants with.

My eyes roam down his broad chest and dark hair. Over his rippled abs, too, and then lower to his perfectly kept pubic hair and dick. Even when fast asleep and flaccid, he’s one hell of a man.

His begins to stir, and I have to stop myself from cuddling up to him and waking him up.

Maybe I should go and make breakfast for us?

Yes. I’ll do that.

I get up and look for something to put on. Rici’s pale blue shirt from last night is still on the floor. I throw it on, grab my phone, and make my way out into the hallway.

The entire house is pitch black. What the hell? Why is it so dark? I don’t get it. There must be some kickass drapes on the windows. I put my cell’s torch back on and tiptoe toward the stairs. Finally, the sensory lights come on and light my way down the grand staircase.

Once at the bottom, I flick the light on, and I look around in wonder. I’ve never been anywhere like this.

Money is no object.

Everything is over the top luxury. Everything is perfect.

Like him.

Enrico Ferrara, you are one major mindfuck.

Yesterday, I was heartbroken over you. Today, I’ve moved in.

What the hell?

Natalie is going to lose her shit at me.

I make my way into the kitchen, turn the light on, and stand for a moment as I take it all in. It’s an all-white state of the art kitchen with beautiful coffee-colored marble floors. The best appliances money can buy sit on every surface, and there’s a huge copper range hood that hangs over the triple oven and hotplates.

Wow, what the hell could you cook in this kitchen? Hopefully good food.

I smirk at the thought of serving up something crappy. I wonder where I could buy packet pasta.

I peer into the fridge, only to be pleasantly surprised to find that it’s fully stocked. There’s lots of fresh fruit, vegetables, and meat. I open the pantry and find a selection of breads and oils. Antonia must have bought all this stuff for us coming here. Or maybe it’s just constantly stocked, and the food goes to waste half the time. I search through the cupboards to find the pots and pans, and then I get to work.

Rici likes fruit for breakfast, but when he’s with me he’s been having eggs and bacon. All those ingredients are here. I’ll make him a smorgasbord—try and impress him with my culinary skills.

Half an hour later, I have a plate of freshly cut up fruit, poached eggs on sourdough with a side of bacon and avocado. There’s also a cup of the strongest coffee known to man. I don’t know how to work that fucking coffee machine. This is the fourth cup I’ve made, and they all taste like shit, but it’s the thought that counts right?

I load it all onto a tray and make my way upstairs.

I carefully place it down on the table in his room and, feeling proud of myself, I lay myself down beside him.