Page 2 of The Moon & His Tides
Right there in the back of the Rolls, her berry lipstick smeared across the window as I held her face against the glass and worked myself into her tight pussy, her cum dripping onto the smooth leather seats as she convulsed around my driving cock.
The low edge of my growl worked its way up my throat before I could contain it. I flashed my gaze up to the rearview mirror and caught her wide, almost childlike blue eyes. I felt that gasp like a hot grip around my cock.
She tore her eyes away as a flush the same color as her lipstick warmed her pale skin.
I’d never been so turned on in my life, yet I’d seen next to nothing of her sweet body and knew even less about her life.
Che cavolo! She didn’t even know my name.
Someone honked at me when I waited too long at a green light, and I cursed under my breath.
If I wasn’t careful, I’d run us off the road, and I needed this shitty job like Catholics needed the Pope. It was my lifeline. If I lost it, I couldn’t afford the rent in the one-bedroom apartment I leased with four other flatmates in Shoreditch. I wouldn’t be able to pursue the acting gig that had brought me to London in the first place, a leading role in a theatre company on the outskirts of the city.
If nothing came of it after the play’s run ended before Christmas, I’d have to slink back to Naples, back to my mother and sisters without the money to support them or the out to take them away from our stinking homeland. I knew exactly what would happen if I went back. I’d be railroaded into joining Tossi and his crew in our local Camorra affiliate.
I’d spent my entire youth working to stay away from the Mafia, and there was no way in hell, even for a woman as beautiful as Savannah Meyers, that I was going there now.
Despite my conviction, when she spoke, ten minutes into what would be a thirty-minute drive thanks to the late Monday afternoon traffic clogging London proper, I almost crashed the car.
“I’d prefer classical, Chopin or Bach if you have it.”
I didn’t hear a word.
My mind locked on the crystalline lilt of her words, the way they softly clicked together like chimes in a breeze.
“Excuse me?”
She asked again while I just stared at her like astronzo.
“Sorry,” I said, flashing her a wide grin because even though I was probably younger than her and definitely not good enough for her, I couldn’t help but flirt. It was instinctual. “Your speaking voice isdolcissima.”
A frown folded the skin between her eyebrows. It made her look both haughty and adorable. I bit back my grin.
“You’re Italian,” she guessed.
“Parla italiano?”
There was humor in her voice but not in her carefully schooled face as she said, “No, not at all. I’m afraid English is it for me.”
I shrugged. “Lucky you. It’s a difficult one to learn.”
She shifted just slightly forward, but it thrilled me like it had when I was a boy and I’d caught a fish on the line, reeling it in, playing it slow but steady toward me.
“You seem to speak it very well,” she said, and I realized belatedly that she was American.
I grinned at her in the rearview as I flipped on the indicator and turned left into Chelsea. “My father was Irish.”
She raised her eyebrows, her mouth a perfect deep pink circle of shock. “Interesting combination. Hot-blooded, I suppose?”
I winked at her. “Passionate is my definition of choice.”
She smiled slightly. “I’m sure. And what brings a passionate Irish-Italian to dreary, proper London?”
“The women,” I said with a smirk. “I didn’t have enough money to make it to America, so I figured England was the next best thing.”
Her laugh was delighted. “My accent betrays me.”
I shrugged. “It’s charming.”
