The Heir

“I want to taste another orgasm,” he says.

When I wriggle in protest, he spanks my ass and tells me, “I can do whatever I want with this body. It belongs to me now.”

In that position and with his dick slowly hardening again inside the warm cave of my mouth, he gives me two more orgasms, before he says, “That’s enough for now. I want to come inside my dirty girl.”

He pulls me upright and turns me to face him. Holding me by my hips he positions the entrance of my swollen pussy over the saliva dripping head of his cock. Then he cups his hands on either side of my face and kisses me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth so I taste my own juices. Still kissing me passionately, he enters me with a wild thrust of his hips.

I cry out in a mixture of pleasure and pain as he rams his cock deep inside of me. I feel like a virgin getting fucked for the first time. His cock is so long and thick it always feels like he is shoving a spear into me.

As I get used to how deep he is I start to take pleasure in being so stretched, so filled. I moan softly as his hips begin to slowly thrust forward. Slowly, his deliciously grinding rhythm turns into a quick pumping action.

“You are mine,” he roars so loudly, I’m sure the customers eating pizza down below must have heard his proclamation of ownership.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I cry out as I feel his cream gushing into me. The sensation triggers an orgasm and suddenly I am hunching his cock as he cums inside of me. I can’t stop moving my pussy up and down, up and down.

When I go limp with exhaustion, I feel Dante’s strong arms come up to support me. Somehow, I am on the floor and he is lifting me. I open my eyes as he carries me into the bedroom. He lays me gently onto the bed.

“Sleep, my beauty. Tomorrow, I will take you for lunch and we will talk,” he says, he bends down and kisses me on the forehead.

I want to ask him to spend the night, but I’m suddenly so incredibly tired. Ever since I became pregnant my exhaustion is all encompassing. I can hardly manage to nod my head as lethargy overtakes me. I am vaguely aware of him turning and walking out of the bedroom.

Then sleep descends over me like a black curtain.

Chapter 20

Dante

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RyInjfgNc4

Love On The Brain

I walk to the door and even open it. I pause for a moment, then I close it and go back to her bedroom. Just one more last look at her.

She is already fast asleep.

Her skin and hair glow in the soft moonlight slanting in through the window. Her beauty makes her seem like an angel. The hairs at the back of my neck lift and I feel an almost divine electric current run through my body. What the fuck? An instant longing rises in me, a mix of lust and possessive need for her.

As if I have never fucked her, all I want to do is fucking worship her pussy.

I want to see her naked again.

To bare my soul to her.

My cock is so hard, my hands clench at my sides. Hell, I desperately want to touch her, to crush her to my chest, smooth her hair, and kiss away her fears. But I will not wake her up. She needs the sleep. She is with child now. My child. The thought worries me. She seems too fragile to carry a baby to full term.

I can still smell our coupling. It lingers on her skin. I bend down and lightly touch her skin, but she is so deeply asleep she does not even stir. I kiss her parted mouth gently. She moans and moves towards me. Sexual energy awakens like a snake in me. My cock swells painfully and I feel my body vibrate with desire. If I stay here any longer I’m going to end up between her legs again. With a frustrated groan, I turn around and walk away.

I close her front door softly and go down to the street. From inside the pizzeria, Antonio, the owner, calls to me. The place is busy and his waiters are busy, but he is sitting at his usual table. I go in and he orders two glasses of grappa for us. He sweeps back his wiry, white hair and smiles broadly.

“How does it go?” he asks in Italian.

“Good,” I say with a smile.

We down the ice-cold grappa and he invites me to join him for supper. “Liver marinated in fish sauce and grilled over an open fire.”

Antonio is an interesting guy. He owns five of these restaurants, but he has stories from when he worked as a laborer in Germany. Funny stories of visiting German brothels, and eating shoe leather when he was really broke, but tonight I’m not in the mood for company, or Roman offal no matter how beautifully done.

I am restless and agitated.

Tonight my mind and body are buzzing like never before.

I decline his generous offer, and bidding him goodnight I leave the restaurant. I get on the scooter and long for the feel of her body behind me. The streets are full of lovers strolling. They live their lives lightly. They never think of this city’s rich, dark, pungent, blood-soaked history. I never forget it. Their laughter as I pass them by touches my skin. I never told her. Her laugh gives me goosebumps. It is sexy as fuck.

I get back to the hotel and go up to my suite. I pour myself a large drink. I wanted so bad to stay with her tonight. I've never wanted to stay with any woman beyond the exchange of pleasure, but this woman lures me like a siren. I never want to leave her company. She feels right. She fits me like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. As if she is a part of me.

I throw myself on to my bed and close my eyes.

I can still smell her sex, its unique scent clings to me as if it were a perfume. I fill my nostrils and visualize her again, her pale soft body, naked and willing, surrendering to my every need as I fill her with my tongue, my fingers, my cock.

The craving for her is strong; I want to go back outside, jump on the Vespa and go straight to her place. I want to rush up those rickety stairs, pull her from the bed, and fuck her in every room, across the furniture, against the wall, all night long until we are both so spent from exhaustion we sleep where we fall.

But not tonight.

I will be patient. I will wait.

Tomorrow I will tell her everything.

Chapter 21

Rosa

Though I hadn’t fancied the thought of getting on a Vespa the first time, I now look forward to it. I’ve grown to love the feel of fresh air blowing against my body and the sensation of being a part of the environment rather than just an observer enclosed inside a metal box. Okay, I admit, it’s also an extremely erotic thing to be nestled close to Dante’s hard, muscular body and feel the sure confidence flowing from it.

In anticipation of the ride in the wind I’d dressed in cream Capri pants, a lavender jersey top, and sensible pumps. The jersey top is a bit risqué, since it’s tight and low cut, but I figure I better wear this sort of thing now before my belly gets too big.

The doorbell rings at five minutes to 1.00 p.m.

Grabbing my purse, I run lightly down the stairs and open the door. Dante is in a beautifully cut dove-grey suit with a black shirt open two buttons down. His hair falls adorably over his forehead.

“How do you feel?” he asks with a captivating smile.

My heart actually skips a beat. I hold up my crossed fingers. “So far so good.”

His eyebrows rise. “No more morning sickness?”

“Yes, but I ate the rest of your magic biscuits and they worked a treat.”

He flashes another megawatt smile. “I’m glad. I’ll get you some more later.”

“Where’s the scooter?” I ask looking around.

Laughing he steps forward and brushes his lips lightly with mine. “I thought we’d try a different mode of transportation today, and maybe from now on.” He takes my hand and draws me to his side facing the street. “M’lady,” he says in a fake English accent, “your chariot awaits.”

The chariot is a shiny red Ferrari. Talk about playboy clichés. “Wow! It’s obviously not the one your uncle gave you for reading Shelley.”

Dante laughs. “No, this one is a 488GT. 570-horsepower and probably the best V8 ever produced. It’s a hell

of a lot faster than the one my uncle gave me, but it’s kind of wasted on the streets of Rome.”

“It’s a supercar.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He takes my arm, leads me to the door, and opens it.

I hesitate. “Dante?”

“Yes.”

“Are we going somewhere really fancy?” I look down at my clothes. “I thought we were doing cemeteries and crypts. I can go back upstairs and change.”

His eyes flash with something fierce and possessive. It makes them look like liquid gold. “There’s not a place in this world you couldn’t go just as you are,” he says. “Now get in before I change my mind and take you upstairs to show you just how fucking edible you look.”

With a happy smile I quietly slip into the seat. When he closes the door and goes around the back to the driver’s side, I reach down and touch the exquisite tan-colored, leather seat. It is as soft as butter.

Dante gets in beside me, making the space feel very small.

“Ready?”

“Uh … huh,” I reply, and instantly the powerful engine roars to life. It’s a throbbing sound that fills me with excitement.

Dante steps on the gas pedal, and all of a sudden the red car is screeching at breakneck speed down the narrow streets of Rome.

“Dante! Dante, slow down!” I shout in a panic, but he puts his hand on my leg and says, “Rosa, Ferraris are meant to be driven fast. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

After that he continues to zip in and out of traffic as though we’re in a chase scene from a Fast and Furious movie. Gripping my purse tightly, I watch him barely miss colliding with other motorists who to my surprise, seem utterly unfazed by his erratic driving. One or two even take time to gaze approvingly at Dante’s car.

“Where are we going?” I ask trying to distract myself from the fact that we must be going at what feels like 200 kilometers per hour.

Dante glances at me. “It’s a surprise.”

By the time the white knuckle ride comes to a neck-snapping stop in front of a restaurant, I’m almost ready to make the sign of the cross.

“Here we are,” he announces.

I look at the unobtrusive front. “Hmmm … a restaurant called Luigi’s.”

“Remember what I told you about judging the book by the cover.”

“I’m not judging,” I defend. “Merely making another valid observation.”

He touches my nose with his finger. “Well, bella mia, let me tell you, the other Luigi’s can’t even begin to compare with this one.”

A young man dressed in black approaches. “May I, sir?” he asks in Italian.

Dante slips out of the car, hands him the car key, and comes around to my side. Laying his hand on the small of my back, he leads me towards the glass entrance.

“By the way,” I say quietly, “if you plan to drive home the way you drove here, kindly call me a taxi.”

Dante laughs. “You’ll get used to my driving.”

He holds the door while I enter. A young woman sitting behind a desk nods at Dante. A man in a suit opens an inner door, and the interior of the restaurant nearly takes my breath away. No cheap, checkered tablecloths, or dripping candles stuck in Frascati bottles either. Rather, the décor is elegant and understated with dark leather and wood—the way a British gentlemen’s club might look. The air is cool and hushed. There are customers eating, but they are screened by potted palms. I gaze at the fine oil paintings decorating the walls.

“Told you this place is different from any other Luigi’s,” Dante murmurs in my ear.

A maître d’ approaches us with a welcoming smile and shows us to our table. The whitest of cloths covers it, and monogrammed white linen napkins rest by each place.

“Do you trust me to order?” Dante asks.

“Sure,” I murmur, a little overwhelmed by my surroundings.

A waiter approaches with two menus, which Dante waves away, and beckons him to come closer instead. He inclines his head toward Dante, and the two confer for a minute or two. Dante calls the man Guissepe, and he in turn addresses him as Signore Dante.

“I’m starting to believe that you know the names of all the waiters in Rome,” I say once Guissepe leaves the table.

His eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement. “But, of course. Isn’t that part of a playboy’s job—to get everyone on his side.”

“They all know you because you are such a big spender?”

His smile broadens. “That would be a safe assumption to make.”

I nod. “So what did you order?”

“For the first course we are having a variation of Cacio e pepper.”

“I’ve never had it. What is it?”

“Pecorino Romano cheese and fresh black pepper pasta are swirled with cooking water from the pasta to make a creamy sauce. Then pasta, smoked pork jowl, and egg are added. It is an extremely simple and light dish, but superb when well done. They do it perfectly here. Our second course is oxtail slow-cooked with San Marzano tomatoes in a stew until the meat is so tender it falls right off the bone.”

“You’re making my mouth water.”

At that moment Guiseppe arrives with the wine. Respectfully, he shows the label to Dante, who approves with a slight nod. He begins to pour a glass for me. “Not for me—,” I say.

“Yes, you will have one mouthful today,” Dante interrupts. “This is very good wine and we are toasting to our first born.”

I stare into his eyes. Firstborn: the first of many. His eyes are veiled and watchful. The thought of being part of a family with him makes my head swim.

He raises his glass. “To our baby.”

“To the baby,” I echo faintly before taking a sip. The wine is cool and delicious on my tongue. I watch him over the rim of my glass. It still feels strange to think that I’m carrying his baby. That this man I thought I would never see again, is the father of my child. He puts his wine glass down. There is an unusually serious look on his face.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I have a confession to make.”

Chapter 22

Rosa

“What about?” I try to keep my tone neutral, but it comes out wary.

“First of all, I’m not Italian.”

My eyes widen. “You’re not?”

He shrugs. “I’m not. I was neither born here, nor am I a citizen.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So where are you from?”

“I am from the kingdom of Avanti.”

Of course, I’d learned about that tiny landlocked tax haven in my Geography lessons, but until now I had never actually met anyone from there. I look at him curiously. “So why pretend to be Italian?”

He holds up a hand. “For the record, I never actually said I was Italian. You assumed I was and I didn’t correct you.”

“Why?”

He shows the first sign of discomfort. “I’m getting there, Rosa. What I really want to tell you is that my full name is not Dante D’Angelo but Nils Dante de Beauvouli.”

The world stops spinning. There is only him and me suddenly. “De-Beauvouli?” I repeat in shock.

“Precisely.”

“As in …”

He nods. “King Isak Elliot De-Bouvouli is my father.”

“What?” My hands flail. I can’t believe what he’s saying. “You’re a prince?”

“I am.”

“But you can’t be …”

His mouth quirks. “Because I’m only a playboy?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Oh, my God, I’m sorry I said all those things.”

“Calling me a playboy? Thinking I can’t settle down.”

I cover my cheeks with my palms. “It explains all the things you know. The poetry and … but I work for fashion magazines. I should know about you. Why are the paparazzi not all over you?”

“Because I walked away from it all before I was eighteen. My father put a news blackout on me. No one talks about me. I’m just another playboy.”

My

jaw drops. “You walked away from being a prince? Why would anyone do that?”

“Because I don’t believe that it should be anyone’s birthright to rule a country. One has to deserve the power to rule. It should be based on consensus and merit.”

“So who will take over after your father?”

“I have a younger half-brother, but our tradition states that succession must now skip to the next generation.”

I stare at him in wonder. “Does your brother have children?”

He shakes his head.

I gasp. “You mean our child will be the next King or Queen of your country.”

“Yes,” he says simply.

I fan my face with my hands. “Oh my God!”

“Rosa …”

“Yes?” I whisper.

He reaches into the side pocket of his jacket and pulls out a velvet box. He opens it and I nearly faint. Inside is the most beautiful rectangular blue stone I have ever seen.

“Dante.” I feel myself blushing. “I shouldn’t even be calling you that anymore, should I?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re Prince Nils!”

He throws his head back and laughs. “I’m the same caveman who ate you out last night.”

“Why don’t you say that louder. I’m sure they didn’t hear it in the kitchen,” I hiss.

“I’ll scream it from the rooftops if you want.”

I ignore his comment and lay my hands against my temple. All this is just too much for me to process. “But surely you can’t just marry a commoner?”

“I can marry anyone I want.”

“But Royals don’t marry commoners.”

“Marrying other royals helped to consolidate power in the past, and today it helps to maintain the illusion of a bloodline’s purity. I don’t subscribe to the notion that just bloodline alone makes someone special, so, Rosa Winchester, will you marry me?”