Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
With a mouth full of dick, I said the words. “I’m sorry.” It came out as an incoherent mumble, saliva spilling from the corners of my mouth. That dick was so good in my mouth that I spent the next ten minutes sucking it as hard as I could, getting spit everywhere, ruining the makeup I’d spent thirty minutes applying, ignoring the pain in my knees as I kneeled directly on the hardwood floor, proving just how fucking sorry I really was.
He gave a loud groan of satisfaction as he came in my mouth, his hand supporting the back of my neck as he finished, his handsome face tinted red, his look far more possessive than it’d ever been before. “Good job, sweetheart. You’ve earned my forgiveness.”
We used to travel by private plane when I was growing up, so it wasn’t that much of a surprise. But Bartholomew’s plane was still very luxurious, and the second I took a seat, I remembered how much I missed the lifestyle. Champagne. Caviar. Assorted French cheeses. We didn’t have to go through security. We didn’t have to wait for our luggage to be loaded. We didn’t have to wait on the tarmac. We just pulled up and took off.
Bartholomew was on his computer the entire time, not paying attention to me during the flight. His flight attendants were all over him, like they lived for the opportunity to serve him. I imagined that carried over to all women in his life.
They’d love to beg for his forgiveness the way I just did.
I continued to sip my champagne, but the alcohol couldn’t cleanse his taste from my tongue—not that I wanted it to.
A while later, we landed in Florence, the Duomo visible from the air before we made our landing. It was a beautiful day, all sunshine and no clouds, and the instant my feet were on the ground, I felt the comfort of home.
A black SUV picked us up, and when there was no conversation, I assumed the driver was on Bartholomew’s payroll. It was a short drive to the heart of the city, the roads flooded with cars and motorbikes. We passed the Four Seasons then pulled up to a palace with a private gate.
Once the doors were shut, our luggage was unloaded, and Bartholomew was greeted by a man in a tuxedo—probably the butler for the residence.
“I hope you had a good flight, sir.” He acknowledged Bartholomew with a slight bow. “The residence is prepared for your arrival. I’ll be in the parlor if you need anything.”
Bartholomew gave a nod before he entered the house.
The butler approached me next and gave me the same level of respect. “I’m Henry, the butler of Bartholomew’s Florence residence. Please let me know if you need anything, and I’ll be happy to assist you.”
We used to have a butler growing up. It was the best. “Thank you, Henry.”
We were escorted inside the beautiful home. Three stories tall. Classic Mediterranean craftsmanship. And there was always a view of the Duomo from the western windows. I wasn’t sure if I would have my own bedroom, but I quickly discovered that Bartholomew intended to share his master quarters with me.
He had a private living room and a balcony, a breathtaking view of the Duomo.
I stepped onto the balcony and admired the sight. The sound of traffic came from the street below. Pigeons were on the nearby roof. In the surrounding distance was the Tuscan countryside, the Mediterranean homes perched on hills with vineyards and olive groves right on their property.
I used to walk these streets every day. Used to pick up my favorite bread in the morning, stop for an espresso in the square, ride my bike to school. My whole life had been here, and I would always feel a pain in my heart when I remembered it. My mother had loved living in Florence. Instead of having the servants grab our produce from the market, she would do it herself, picking out all the best ingredients she wanted, carrying it all home. We would get lunch afterward, working up an appetite just from thinking about all the food we would make.
I must have stood there for a while, because Bartholomew appeared at my side in just his sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he’d hopped in the shower and washed off the plane ride.
“I love your home.”
His hands rested on the rail in front of him.
“How long have you had it?”
“Five years.”
“You come here often?”
“No.” He stared at the Duomo, a sight that never got old.
“My old apartment isn’t too far away.”
“And your father?”
“He isn’t too far away either.” We had a summer home in the heart of Tuscany, somewhere to retreat when all the tourists came. But he preferred spending his time in the city, in the center of all the hustle. It was the most convenient way to do business.