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CHAPTER 1

Alessandro

“ O h God, don’t stop, don’t stop!” the blonde cries.

Her next words are swallowed by her red-haired friend’s hungry mouth. I watch their tongues twist against each other, and I reward their display with a hard thrust of my hips that has the blonde jerking.

Then, I drag my mouth up her neck to whisper into her ear, “Fuck her hungry little pussy with your tongue.”

She tears her mouth away from the other woman’s and pushes her back onto the bed before bending over her to follow my order. The position causes her back to arch impossibly, and I wrap her hair around one fist, the other slapping up against the headboard for leverage. I let out an animalistic groan as her walls tighten around me.

“Don’t cum,” I bark at her.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs as I continue to piston into her, her body jerking at the force of my thrusts, her spine tight with the effort of keeping her orgasm at bay.

“Argh! Yes!” the redhead screams, one of her hands pinching and rolling her nipples. I bend over and slap her hands away, taking over.

My orgasm is right around the corner, but I’m intent on making them cum first. I increase my pace, fucking into her dripping hole savagely.

“Make her cum,” I grit out.

“Fuck!” The red head arches her back as I pinch her nipple. And then she erupts with a drawn-out cry, the blonde following right after. I push into her wet heat a few more times before I tense up and throw my head back, my orgasm ripping through me.

The women’s hands reach for me afterward, but I bat them away. I’m always clear about what I want.

Sex is the only thing on the table; there are no dinnerovers or sleepovers, and most of the women understand it, but of course, there are always the few exceptions that try to turn it into more.

And they always end up disappointed.

The redhead—Suzie, I think—rises to her feet and pouts at me. “Are you going to let us shower at least?”

I motion at the door to the side and say, “Have at it.”

They giggle and make their way toward the bathroom. At the door, the blonde—for the life of me, I can’t remember her name—looks over her shoulder with a saucy smirk.

“Are you going to join us?” she asks. “You know what they say. Shower together, save water.”

Before I can make it clear that they have about fifteen minutes before I throw them out of my penthouse, my phone begins to ring.

Ignoring the women, I tug my briefs on and walk out of the bedroom, irritated. My sole reason for buying this piece of costly real estate was to bring women back to relieve myself when I felt the itch.

Lately, no matter how many positions I maneuvered my hook ups into or how diverse or experienced they were, there was always something missing.

I always came, of course, but right on the heel of those orgasms, all the tension would flood back. The women in the bathroom at the moment are just another failed attempt to get rid of the sexual frustration that has been plaguing me.

As I step into the living room, I roll my shoulders to loosen them, but I’m beginning to think the tension is more than a physical problem.

I locate my phone in the inner pocket of my suit jacket that’s flung onto one of the decorative lamps. I recall tossing it there carelessly when I barged into the apartment earlier with the women in a mess of clashing mouths and grasping hands.

“Yes?” I bark, holding the phone to my ear.

“Mr. Mancini, it’s almost seven,” Dakota says evenly. “Shall I send the car over in twenty minutes?”

I pick up the Cartier watch lying on the front table and glance at it. It’s ten minutes to seven. “What’s happening by seven?”

My assistant pauses for a moment, then says, “The art gallery, sir.”

My eyes narrow, and my body becomes even more impossibly tense. It’s no surprise that being reminded of Ivan D’Addario does this to me. He’s my biggest rival, and the grudge I hold against him is one I intend to settle score by score. For years, I’ve been digging into him with all the resources at my disposal to get something on him, some way to bring his glass house down on his head.

And just when it seemed he was untouchable, I caught wind of a daughter. A daughter more closely guarded than the cure for cancer. According to my sources, she’ll be at the Santiago House art gallery tonight.

My hands clench into fists at my sides.

“Fine,” I tell Dakota. “Let Maurizio know.”

“Already done, sir. I’ve had him go through the gallery with a fine comb and station men at strategic points. We have also gotten access to a live feed and a list of all the attending guests.”

If there is a finer assistant in the whole damn world than Dakota, I haven’t met them. With my mouth drawn into a small smile, I hang up and march to the bathroom, where I find the women doing the opposite of cleaning up.

I kick my briefs off and stalk into the bathroom. One more round never hurt anyone.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing before a beady-eyed businessman who is trying to convince me that investing in his sorry excuse of a company will be in my favor.

I flick my gaze over his shoulder and around the room in a feigned casual look.

My plan to be here tonight has far too many holes in it. Less-than-foolproof moves have never been my MO, but I also have almost nothing to work with. I have just a name and a last name that’s supposedly her mother’s last name. Other than that, Ivan’s daughter remains as much of a mystery as ever.

At that moment, my eye catches something, and I still. I turn on my heels abruptly, cutting the man off as I approach the paintings lining the far wall. All five of the paintings look like they belong in a series, with the brush strokes getting more violent as the series progresses.

“Whoever put these paintings at the back is a moron,” I mutter.

“Really?” a voice says.

I jerk, only just noticing the woman standing there. And then, for the first time in my life, I do a double take.

I’ve met gorgeous women from all over the world, taken many to bed, and gone out with a few, but there is something about the woman gnawing at her lower lip and staring at the middle painting with utmost concentration that is so striking.

She turns her head, and her eyes—big, almond-shaped, hazel eyes—meet mine. I take in the rest of her features. She has a button nose, full lips, a jaw that ends in a stubborn point, and a mass of onyx coils falling all over her face, down to a tight waist.

Exquisite.

That’s the only word that comes to mind.

“Would you rather they put them up at the windows facing the street?” she asks.

I tear my eyes away from her with effort. “They would not be able to stop the hoard that would have flocked in if they had.”

She chuckles—a light, airy sound that unfurls something inside me.

“That’s a glowing review if I’ve ever heard one.”

“It’s an excellent series.”

Her head snaps up. “Series? What makes you say that? I don’t see the similarity.”

“Walk with me,” I tell her, nodding to the first one.

She gives me an accessing look before preceding me to the first one. My eyes drop down to her ass in the tan pants she has on. All I can think is there’s enough of her to grab in bed.

“So?” She waves her hand at the first one, her brow hooked up in challenge. “Educate me.”

“To an untrained eye, it looks like there are only two colors in this piece: blue and lilac.” I point out the predominant colors. “But if you look closer, you can see the spots of orange peeking through. The artist has done it with such a light hand that it fades into the background.”

I step to the second painting, and she follows. “The orange is more visible here, so it looks like this is orange, lilac, and grey.”

She nods as I lead her to each one until we are at the last one.

“Here, there is an explosion of colors, all the hidden elements from the other ones roaring out at the viewer while the more apparent ones recede into the background,” I explain. “If I’m to guess, I’ll say this artist painted them all in a row with different brushes that they never cleaned out.”

“Wow.” Her breathless exclamation catches my attention, and I glance at her to see her staring at me wide-eyed. “You’re really passionate about this.”

I chuckle. “It called to me.”

She raises her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and my gaze immediately zeroes in on her fingers. Her hazel eyes follow my gaze and land on her colored hands.

Red blooms across her cheek, and she ducks her head. “Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.”

“What is?” I ask, amused.

She runs a hand through her hair with a sheepish smile. “I’m standing in front of the most gorgeous man on earth, and I have paint on my hands.”

My mouth curls up at her revelation. “You think I’m the most gorgeous man on earth?”

Her pretty pink mouth drops open. “I—I didn’t mean that!”

I place a hand against my heart and shoot her a look of mock hurt. “So you don’t think I’m gorgeous? You hurt my feelings, darling.”

The red on her cheeks blooms, and she bites her lip. “Can I slink away with my tail tucked between my legs, and we can pretend this whole humiliating conversation never happened?”

I throw my head back and let out a bark of laughter, delighted by how open and fascinating she is. A woman like her would be eaten up and spat out in seconds if she came anywhere near my world.

There’s nothing coy or calculative about the way she’s staring at me, and it’s refreshing. I doubt she knows who I am, so I decide I’ll keep my anonymity a little while longer.

“But I’m so thoroughly enjoying our conversation, miss—” I wait for her to fill in the blank.

She grins. “You can call me S.”

My eyes narrow. “S?” Then I turn to the paintings and say, “You painted these.”

The woman quirks her brow. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, if you planned to keep your anonymity by using that pseudonym, you would have had better luck with a less observant person.” I step closer to the painting and point at the tiny letter scribbled at the very bottom. It’s done in almost the same color as the background, so it blends in.

She lets out a nervous laugh. “With the way you’re so good at picking out tiny details, I’m going to take a guess that you’re either a detective or an attorney.”

My smile is all teeth, and I’m amused by her very off-mark guess. “You should stay off the poker table in the future.”

I watch as her lower lip sticks out indignantly. “Are you saying I have rubbish instincts?”

“Absolutely terrible, S,” I say with a grave nod that causes her to laugh.

“Thank you for that observation, kind sir. I’ll stick to painting then.”

I glance at the third painting again. “You’re brilliant with a brush. Not many know how to tell such a moving story with just colors.”

“And what story does it tell?”

Her hair is in her face again, and I take the liberty of helping her tuck it behind her ear, noting the way her breath hitches at the move.

“The painter has found a rage that they never realized lived inside them,” I whispered to her, watching her eyes drop to my mouth. “The rage is raw, dirty, and messy. It’s the kind that turns you inside out and reinvents you. And she’s about to let that rage detonate.”

I don’t mean for it to sound sexual, but it does, and I think she feels it, too. For a second, the world around us seems to disappear until it’s just us, with her looking shell-shocked and me having the sudden blinding desire to kiss her.