For fans of New York Times bestselling authors Samantha Young, Sylvia Day, and E. L. James comes the erotically charged story of a passionate woman, a powerful billionaire, and the soul-searing love that binds them . . . forever. Allegra Orsini's dreams are all coming true. She's making her debut at the Metropolitan Opera-and marrying Davison Cabot Berkeley, the brilliant billionaire and masterful lover who's unlocked her most secret desires. From the glittering lights of the opera hall to the sultry shadows of a honeymoon suite, Allegra has all she's ever wanted . . . until one moment changes everything. As despair darkens their once perfect world, Allegra pulls away from everything and everyone she's ever loved, including Davison. But Davison refuses to give up on her-or the pure, raw passion that still burns between them. Allegra may have lost herself, but Davison knows right where she belongs, and he's determined to prove it to her . . .
Release date:
August 4, 2015
Publisher:
Forever Yours
Print pages:
173
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Watching my fiancé, Davison Cabot Berkeley, standing in front of the mirror in his walk-in closet adjusting his bow tie while wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo is an exercise in torture.
Exquisite torture.
He stands ramrod straight, his emerald eyes, full of determination and focus, practically etching a mark in the glass. His chiseled jaw is locked. He wants to look perfect, and all I want to do is rip off the tie, pull apart his pristine white tuxedo shirt, sending its buttons scattering across the closet floor like pebbles, slam my lips over his, and plunge my tongue into his mouth. Then, once his broad, muscled chest presents itself to me, I’ll run my tongue and hands over it down to the bulge enveloped in the soft, silky fabric of his trousers, unzip them, and sink to the carpet until my knees hit as I take his hot, velvety cock into my mouth and…
“If you don’t stop ogling me like that, Venus, I’ll have no choice but to fuck you right here in this closet.”
His declaration snaps me back to the present, which works so effortlessly when he says it, addressing me with his preferred nickname for me, and with that low rumble in his voice that makes me wet at the sound of it.
“I didn’t realize you saw me standing here.”
He pivots to me to stare at me full-on. “Baby, I don’t have to see you to know you’re near me. I just know.”
I smile. “Goes both ways, Harvard.”
His eyes warm at the sound of the term of endearment I use only for him. “Come here,” his voice beckons, my pussy aching at the sound of his insistence.
I step over to him. He positions me in front of the mirror with him behind me, his warm breath in my ear.
Finally, after a pause, I hear him take in a breath. He runs his hands over my dress, a deep red strapless gown that matches the ruby ring I always wear on my right hand, the one Davison gave me in Venice when we rode under the Bridge of Sighs in the gondola.
“God, you’re so beautiful. How did I get so fucking lucky?” he murmurs in my ear, gripping my body tightly to his.
“What can I say? You’re a very good boy.”
The warmth of his lips descends on my neck as his mouth begins to suck softly on my flesh. “Ha! Hardly!” he mumbles under his breath.
My head lolls back onto his shoulder, savoring the feel of his touch. “Hmm, you might have a point there.”
I can feel his heartbeat increasing against my back. My core clenches as I grow more aroused with each pull of his lips on my neck. His hands roam over my chest, holding my breasts in his hands. His body vibrates behind me in a low moan as his thumbs stroke my nipples, which instantly harden under my dress.
The sound of a phone pinging in the bedroom forces Davison to pull away, both of us groaning in annoyance.
I sigh. “I think it’s mine.”
Davison follows me back into the bedroom and watches over my shoulder as I pick up my phone, grunting his annoyance. “Christ, can’t he leave you alone for two seconds?”
I exhale in exasperation as I watch him pick up his wallet and phone from the nightstand. “We have to leave in five minutes,” he announces.
“I’m ready,” I reply to his retreating back. “Just give me a sec.”
The text is from Jared Saxon, my new manager. After I was one of the winners of the Metropolitan Opera National Council auditions a few months ago, Jared signed me on as a client soon after. He’s managed opera singers for almost twenty years, from divas to newcomers. I spoke with Ginevra Ventura, or La Diva as she’s better known, the international opera star with whom I apprenticed over the summer, before I signed on with him. Even though he wasn’t her manager, she said that he had a solid reputation in the business, which was good enough for me. My professional singing career since then has taken off. Because of him, I was offered the chance to audition at the Met, and then starring in the role I’ve been dreaming of for as long as I’ve known I wanted to be an opera singer became a reality—the lead role of Mimi in La Bohème.
Ever since then, my life has been a whirlwind. Between rehearsals and meetings with Jared and his team, I haven’t had much time with Papa and Lucy. It’s been somewhat easier with Davison because as of two months ago, we are now living together. Even though he spends what feels like every waking hour working with his new company, The DCB Group, I still get to see him every night when he comes to bed and every morning when I open my eyes.
I swipe my phone open to read Jared’s text.
I’ll be waiting for you when you arrive. There will be a press line, so make sure you get lots of solo shots with the paps without Davison. I also suggest that you wear your hair down. See you there. J
Ugh.
Jared has done such amazing things for my career, and I never would’ve been given the opportunities I’ve had since he started managing me, but there’s a fine line between managing and dictating. Plus, there is no way in hell I’m taking my hair out of the chignon that took me ages to get right. My career is one thing—my hair, that’s off-limits.
* * *
“Did he say when he’d call, Ian? Okay, tell him I’ll be in the office tomorrow at nine, so we can set up a conference call then. Anything else?”
I glance over at Davison on his cell, then at his left hand as he holds my right one, sitting in the Maybach on our way up the West Side Highway. This is something that he recently started doing. He’s on the phone now much more, but even though he’s talking to someone else, he always has to maintain a connection with me, whether it’s holding my hand or curving his arm around my shoulders.
Davison is the man who mesmerized me from the moment I met him and still does, so much that sometimes I’m still overwhelmed with the intensity of the love he has for me and the one I have for him.
That love has put us through the wringer. Our journey to where we are now, engaged to be married, was waylaid numerous times, from Davison’s ex-girlfriend Ashton Canterbury’s attempt to keep us apart, then my kidnap nightmare with the scum, Carlo Morandi, who murdered my mother in front of me when I was five years old, and finally, the event that changed me forever: Davison being shot in the shoulder before he and his father were to meet with the Feds about the crimes the elder Berkeley had committed.
When Davison was lying on the ground with his blood spilling out of him onto the concrete, I’d never felt more useless in my life, and more than that, I knew that if he died, I would lose myself, the self that Davison brought out in me. The me that is now more confident, more open, less afraid, with more love than I ever had before in my life.
But he survived, and now we were going to start a life together. And I’ve never been happier in my life.
Tonight is one of the most important events in the Manhattan social calendar—the opening-night gala of the new season at the Metropolitan Opera. I always watched the excitement from across the street before I started my night shift at Le Bistro as a coat-check girl—limos and town cars pulling up to the plaza in front of the Met, a huge screen set up to broadcast the arrivals and the opera itself, the shouts from the paparazzi calling out celebrity names, the flashes from their cameras lighting up the night sky. And now, I’m going to be walking that red carpet with my fiancé as a contracted singer with the Metropolitan Opera. I’m still amazed at it all, but even more, I’m humbled and grateful.
As Charles pulls the Maybach over to the curb, I spot the red carpet for the arrivals spread out elegantly across the wide stairs, the photographers caged behind metal barriers. And at the near edge waiting for me checking his phone is Jared with a petite blonde.
Davison groans under his breath. He’s spotted Jared as well. “Who’s that with him?”
“I have no idea. He wants me to get solo shots with the paps.”
“Of course he does,” he murmurs, still looking out the window.
I tug on Davison’s hand. “Harvard.”
He turns and looks me directly in the eye.
“I love you.”
A smile breaks across his face. He runs his fingers down my face and leans in for a quick kiss. “I love you too, baby.”
“Do I look okay?” I ask, touching my hair gently to make sure it’s stayed in place.
He takes my hand and kisses it. “Silly fiancée.” He hands me my clutch purse, the one that belonged to my late mother that I always took with me to the opera like she did when she was alive, then wraps the black vintage fringed shawl I bought at a little boutique in the East Village around my shoulders. “Come on, Venus. Time to put our game faces on.”
I nod and take my purse from him. As per our routine, I wait for Davison to exit his side of the car to come around and open my door. He helps me out of the Maybach, and instantly, we’re blinded by exploding flashbulbs and our names being called out to gain our attention.
Jared immediately appears at my side with the blonde right behind him.
“Finally,” he huffs in exasperation. “What took you so long?”
“It’s called traffic, Saxon,” Davison barks at him, his grip on my hand akin to a steel vise.
I press my thumb into Davison’s fingers in an attempt to calm him. Honestly, I don’t mind when Davison is protective and territorial over me, but because Jared is the man who manages my budding opera career, I need to maintain a healthy working relationship with him, as much as it kills Davison sometimes.
“This is Alicia,” Jared announces, completely ignoring Davison and gesturing to the blonde. “She’s going to help you work the press line. Just make sure you get the solo shots in front of the step and repeat.”
Alicia nods. “Of course, Jared. This way, Miss Orsini.”
I barely have time to assure Jared I’ll be fine before Davison pulls on my hand and deliberately walks in front of Alicia, ignoring the woman’s pleas to wait for her. He walks with me up the stairs at a slow yet determined pace since I’m wearing stilettos.
Once we reach the top of the stairs, the paparazzi begin to scream our names again for our attention. Thankfully, Davison is an old pro at this, a former Manhattan bachelor and permanent fixture on Page Six. He guides me down the red carpet, his hand holding mine tightly, pausing now and then so the press can get pictures. Alicia shadows us, keeping a few feet behind.
We arrive at the backdrop with the logo of the Met and the evening’s sponsors emblazoned on it when Alicia steps forward. “We need a few shots of Allegra alone, Mr. Berkeley.”
Davison smiles while clenching his jaw. “Certainly.”
Alicia steps aside, but not before Davison takes my face in his hands and kisses me long and deep. Hoots and catcalls rise up from the photographers.
When he pulls away, a sly, knowing smirk appears on his face, and I know exactly what he’s feeling because my face mirrors his. Without words, he’s telling me You’re mine, and a wave of warmth envelops my entire body.
I watch as he takes a few steps away, and I turn back to the cameras.
“Show us the ring, Allegra!” one photographer shouts.
I smile widely as I raise my left hand and proudly hold up my ring, which once belonged to Davison’s grandmother, to the lenses aimed at it.
I pose for a few more minutes when I sense Davison next to me, his hand taking mine again into his tight grip.
He turns to the cameras and smiles. “Thank you, everyone.”
Alicia appears from the side. “She still needs—”
I shake my head. “I’m staying with Davison now, Alicia. And I apologize in advance if that upsets Jared.”
With Davison pulling me tightly into him, I throw my shoulders back and let him guide me into the building.
After we show our tickets, a voice shouts at me across the crowded space. “Alli!”
I smile as I watch my best friend, Luciana Gibbons, or Lucy, as I call her, approach us, a flute of champagne in her hand. She looks gorgeous in an ice-blue gown that perfectly matches her eyes and a pair of silver slingbacks on her feet, as she takes turns embracing us both.
Lucy’s eyes are shining with pure joy. “Did you see? Did you see?”
“See what?” I ask cluelessly. “We just got here.”
She thrusts the program at us, open to a page in the middle. “Look! Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Davison and I glance down at the picture of Lucy’s boyfriend, Tomas Novotny, in the cast list. He’s singing a supporting role in the opening-night production of Wagner’s Das Rheingold, and while I’m thrilled for him, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Lucy had shouted the news from the rooftops, which as a proud girlfriend, would entirely be her prerogative.
We both nod. “Yes, he is very handsome,” I agree.
Lucy snatches the program back from us. “‘Handsome’? He’s fucking hot!”
“Indeed,” Davison adds drily, which makes me bite back a laugh. “We should get to our seats.”
I lean in and hug Lucy again. “If I don’t see you at intermission, you’re coming over this week so we can finalize the wedding plans, right?”
“Of course. Your maid of dishonor will not let you down.”
“Well, if the name fits…”
“Which it does,” she agrees.
“I should get you a T-shirt with that printed on it,” I offer.
“Which I can wear for your bachelorette party.”
Davison clears his throat. “Okay, now we really have to go. And, by the way, Luciana, ther. . .
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