Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
With the heft of his come inside me, I turned over and fell asleep quickly, somehow spent when I just lay there and he did the rest.
Tomorrow was my last day.
Then I had to go back to reality. I had to move everything out of my apartment so my replacement could move in—with her two kids in tow. I suspected she might already be there because her husband may have thrown her out on her ass. Now she needed Enzo to provide for her since he was knee deep in this with her.
Or balls deep, I should say.
I already had gigs lined up with clients who had booked six months in advance. Weddings on the weekends, private events, engagement photos, all sorts of things. I had enough clients and a strong enough brand, along with word-of-mouth marketing, that I could afford an apartment by myself, but not the one I’d shared with Enzo. That was a three-bedroom apartment with a full kitchen and a large living room, a mansion for a place like Rome. I’d have to move outside the city center, which meant I’d have to commute to every gig. I usually walked everywhere, but now I’d have to get a motorbike because a car was too expensive and too difficult to navigate on those kinds of roads.
I didn’t want to think about all those things, but I had to. I should have done it sooner, because now when I picked up my stuff, I’d have to crash with a friend or get a room at a cheap motel until I could find a new place to live.
But fuck it, I’d rather enjoy my fuck-cation.
Constantine took me to an outdoor bar called Daiquiri, down the stairs off the main street, with a full menu of fruity drinks and cocktails that made it special. The outdoor terrace had a string of lights overhead, colorful chairs on the pebbled terrace.
They brought our drinks, bringing him a glass of wine and me a piña colada, because why the hell not? They also brought a bowl of potato chips, two plates of appetizers of potato coquettes with shredded beets on top, and then fresh bread slathered in fresh ragu. They gave you so much food that it could easily spoil your appetite for dinner if you went overboard.
So goddamn handsome and utterly fuckable, he sat there relaxed in the chair and just stared at me, in a dark-gray collared shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and exposing the ink of his forearms. A damn tree that anyone would love to climb, he was a behemoth of a man.
He was so hot that I didn’t care what he was doing last night. Killing people, selling drugs, whatever. He might be the most dangerous man in Sicily, and I still didn’t give a damn. Because Jesus Christ . . . look at him.
His focused stare remained on mine, his confidence piercing my gaze with bullets. “What are you thinking?”
That you’re fucking dangerous, and I don’t care. “That you’re so fucking hot,” I said with a sigh because it was painful to look at him. It was the truth—at least half of the truth.
A hint of a smile moved into the corners of his mouth. He grabbed his wineglass and took a drink.
“And you’re a great tour guide.” I grabbed the frosted glass of the piña colada and took a drink out of the reusable metal straw before I returned it to the coaster. “What was supposed to be the worst week of my life has turned into the best. I’d just hit rock bottom when we crossed paths.”
He gave me his complete focus like he always did when I spoke. Like every word out of my mouth mattered. Like he found me utterly fascinating.
“I completely lost myself . . . but I found her again.” Found the woman who didn’t tolerate bullshit. Who wouldn’t put up with a man who didn’t give me what I deserved—even if I still loved him. “It just makes it easier to get my stuff and move on with my life.” To carry everything I’d learned into the next relationship . . . if and when I was ready to be in one again.
I imagined he broke a lot of hearts as he passed through life. I could easily be the type of woman who expected and hoped this would be something more, and he’d have the painful task of explaining that the situationship had a deadline. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me to imagine him replacing me with his next fling in just a couple days or a week—or if he already had a line of regulars back at home who were happy to settle for casual.
But I accepted it. “So, thanks for spending the week with me.”