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.
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EXCERPT:
Allegra
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 five minutes?”
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.
About Sofia Tate
Sofia
Tate grew up in Maplewood, NJ, the oldest of three children in a
bilingual family. She was raised on 70s disaster films and 80s British
New Wave music and classic tv miniseries. Her love for reading started
when she received
a set of Judy Blume books from her aunt when she was ten. She
discovered erotic romance thanks to Charlotte Featherstone. She loves
both writing and reading erotic romance. She graduated from Marymount
College in Tarrytown, NY, with a degree in International
Studies and a minor in Italian. She also holds an MFA in Creative
Writing from Adelphi University. She has lived in London and Prague.
Sofia currently resides in New York City.
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