You’ve read the entire book from Livia’s point of view. Here’s a bonus scene where Blitz shows us how he’s feeling in a key moment of their relationship: the consummation in the hotel. Enjoy.
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Damn, it’s cold outside tonight.
I ease my foot off the accelerator, allowing the Ferrari to roll along the curb in front of the park where I met Livia last time. She’s told me she’ll get here as soon as she can.
It’s late for this neighborhood. The houses are all dark, the occasional flash of a TV screen the only light in any of the windows.
Leaves circle in front of me like a mini-cyclone, and I see someone hurrying down the sidewalk, head down in the wind.
It’s her.
I inch forward, watching her huddle in on herself in the cold. Her hair streams behind her. When the Ferrari gets to her, I reach over to open the door from the inside.
“Oh, Princess, it’s way too cold for royalty to be out in this weather,” I say.
Her teeth chatter. “I’m fine,” she says.
I’m surprised she can talk, she’s shivering so hard. I crank the heater. Her bare legs have to be freezing in that skirt. I swear I’m going to buy her an entire wardrobe when I get the chance. I don’t know what the hell her parents have done to her, but she’s obviously been through enough.
I ask her if it’s okay if we go to my hotel. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to lure her somewhere. Even after the movie theater, she seems so innocent. I don’t want to push her too fast. I sense somebody did that already.
But she says, “That sounds perfect.” And from the tone of her voice, I believe her.
The fog is crazy. She asks me about my parents, and the tough times after my stupid Tweet went viral. I give her the basics, only half paying attention to my own voice, focused on getting her warm.
Then she says something about her bra size, and my brain fires off an alarm. Just like that, I’m back to her body, her innocence. I think she just needs an escape.
“Princess,” I say. “You’re tempting me sorely, and my intentions are strictly honorable tonight.”
She gets quiet after that, and it’s like I figured. She’s scared. I don’t want her scared. I want her to feel safe with me.
We get to the hotel and head up to the suite while I try to figure out how to keep her feeling comfortable, not like she’s been lured into a trap.
Livia’s adorably naive about the secure floors and how the elevators work. I step back while she plays with the screen inside, even though just the sight of her so close to my private room makes my blood beat.
She’s definitely not safe with me.
I’m trying to figure out how to cool my jets when we arrive on our floor.
I pay zero attention to the bartender in the private lounge until Livia whispers, “I’m underage.”
“Nothing right now, thank you,” I tell the guy. Livia has this fresh-faced youthfulness about her, all loose hair and no makeup. But she’s old enough. I checked. I can’t seem to stay away from her, even if I wanted to.
I’ve gotten jaded about fancy hotels, but Livia’s reaction to it reminds me how rare it is for people to stay in a place like this.
I see the white sofa, the fireplace, the piano, and the big windows through her eyes now. And she’s right, it’s beautiful.
I set down our coats and watch her head to the bank of windows overlooking San Antonio. She’s a vision, slender and graceful, her long black hair flowing down her back. She presses her hands to the glass and looks out with big, awe-filled eyes. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel that inspired by the ordinary world.
I come up behind her and sweep her hair off her shoulder. “You okay with getting away?” I ask.
She shivers, and suddenly she does seem anxious. I withdraw a little and take her hand. “Come sit with me,” I say.
She lets me pull her close on the sofa, and I ramble on about the dance show and the contestants until she starts to relax. I think she’s calm, but then I say, “The winner will be better off than I will.”
“So you have to do it?” she asks. “Choose a winner?”
She’s hung up on that, probably because of all the hype that I’m going to propose marriage to one of the girls. I most definitely am not.
I explain that television is driven by ratings, and being an asshole made the show outrageously popular. But none of it is real. Well, other than me being an asshole. That’s probably true.
“But you still have to choose,” she says. She’s really stuck on this point.
“I choose this.” I squeeze her hand.
“Well, it’s really inconvenient right now,” she says.
This makes me laugh. I want to reassure her, but keep it easy. I turn her cheek so I can get to her.
Her lips on mine are soft and responsive. I think this might be as far as things get when she presses ever so subtly against me, her mouth parting.
And then I just take over. I want to taste her, all of her, feel her body shudder around my hand like it did during the movie.
I’m too hungry for this to wait, so I shift our positions. My fingers brush across a strip of skin on her belly and she sucks in a breath.
“Sensitive, Princess?” I ask, even though I know the answer. She’s mine, all mine.
I work my way up her delectable skin, then remember she said she hasn’t worn a bra. I’m instantly hard as a rock. “You made it easy for me. God, that is hot.”
I want to know every inch of her, and her taut breast in my mouth is a feast. I’m a greedy bastard now, and I pay attention to both perfect nipples. I could only do so much in that movie theater seat, and now I’m going to have all of her.
I work my way down. “What else am I going to find?” I ask, mainly to let her know where I’m headed. She could stop me if she wanted, but the way her back is arching, I’m pretty sure I’m going straight to where she wants me to be.
My body skims hers as I reach her legs. I kiss the inside of a knee and nibble my way up. The dancer in her is obvious, the muscles taut. Her skin is impossibly smooth.
My nose pushes the flannel skirt out of my way as I move up. Her breathing is ragged. We’re still good.
Then the skirt shifts, and I see her, soft and pink and exposed. No panties. It takes every effort not to bury my face there straightaway.
“You’re perfect,” I say, so close to her that I can feel my breath against her skin.
I slip a finger inside her. She’s warm and tight, and my groin is ready to explode. As she moves with me, her body shifting with my touch, I watch her upturned chin, listening to her little sounds.
When she shifts down closer to me, I know what she’s after. And I give it, tongue inside her, smiling as her hands grab my hair.
Then it’s all movement and tension, her muscles showing me the way. I’m working her, thighs at my ears, loving every moan and cry, then she calls out my name and the pulsing begins.
It’s glorious and strong, like waves lapping at me on a shore. I slow down as she does, getting more gentle, then slowly withdraw.
Her skirt is bunched up on her belly. I move to straighten it when I see a tear slip down her cheek. She’s trying to cover her face.
I pull her to me. “You okay, Princess?”
She nods against my chest.
A worry starts to seed that I took this too far, that she’s regretting being here. Maybe she thinks I’ll force her into more now that we’re alone in a hotel.
“Hey, talk to me.”
She shakes her head. “Just old stuff.”
And that’s when I get it. Somebody did something to her. This is taking her back to bad memories.
“Did somebody hurt you once?”
I’ll kill them. I’ll pull their spine from their bodies.
“No,” she says. “Never. No. It’s just been a long time.”
I’m relieved a million times over. I cradle her to me. “That’s all right. We don’t have to do anything else.” And we don’t. I’ve had enough fast women for a lifetime. Going slow is fine by me.
But she shifts around to face me. “I think we do,” she says. Her voice is shaky but then she kisses me, and there is no hesitation in that.
And I’m there. I sweep her up and get her in the bedroom, pronto. We’re going to do this right.
She laughs about the princess bed, but I’m pretty intent on getting her naked, immediately. I lay her on the bed and get that skirt off her.
Then I take my time. I want to know every inch of the body I’ve held so many times in dance. I’ve lifted her, turned her, held her in my arms. But now I’ve really got her. Naked, lit by the bathroom light, just for me to see.
I run my hands over her, starting with her jaw and neck, down those beautiful breasts, and along her ribs. I frame her hips with my palms, my thumb dipping into her belly button. She smiles.
My hands fit over her thighs, down her knees, to her strong ballerina’s calves.
She’s perfect.
I stand up and get my clothes off as fast as I can. She watches me, taking me in. I see her expression soften, like she might cry again. Now I’m unsure what she wants.
She sits up. “Can we dance?”
I kick my clothes under a chair. “A naked waltz. Now that’s an idea.” I’m happy with slow. Happy with anything involving her naked body.
I pull her up from the bed and shift her into a waltz pose. I swear we never actually dance to music. But it doesn’t matter. She follows my lead as we move across the room. The feel of her breasts against my chest makes me insane.
She’s impossibly beautiful, and I tell her so, then kiss her. I can’t bear any more waiting. She’s too precious, too perfect. I need her.
I lift her by the thighs to straddle my hips. She’s right there, and I could just take her, but this has to be perfect. The way she’d want it. I walk us over to the bed and lay her down on the sheets.
If it’s been a long time, she’s probably unprotected on her own. “Condom work for you?” I ask. I can gauge if she’s really ready for this by her answer.
She nods.
For a moment, I can’t find my damn pants. I kicked them in some dark corner. After a frantic search, I extract my wallet and the condom. I make sure I’m ready to go before I get near her again. All control is gone now.
I crawl over to her, touching her, kissing. It seems like forever that I’ve known her and wanted her, waiting for this. I separate her knees, and she lifts herself up to meet me. She’s there, ready. We’re heading here together.
Slipping inside her is like a miracle. She cries out, eager. Her joy is beautiful and unexpected. I feel my jaded heart cracking, not that she hadn’t already dealt it some serious blows. She’s authentic. This is really her, showing me how she feels.
“My sweet Livia,” I say. “How I have pined for you.”
I’m damn overwhelmed by this, swamped with the sweetness of her below me, how real it all is. No agenda. No manipulating me or trying to get something out of me.
Nothing but us here. The real deal.
I reach between us. I’ve already learned her, know what she needs. Her eyes widen like she didn’t expect so much tonight, and as her sounds start to come, I’m flooded with everything about her. She’s everything. I can’t live without her.
Her eyes meet mine as she lets go, crying out. This gets me, and I’m unleashed. We hold still, our bodies locked together. She touches my back, my waist, my skin, as if she has to reassure herself that I’m not a figment of her imagination.
I know how she’s feeling. How can this be real? I carefully withdraw and draw her next to me. There’s no sound but our breathing. Nothing penetrates our perfect world.
And I swear I will do whatever it takes, quit the show, disappear from the media, anything I have to do to protect this. I am already hers, and I will move every mountain in our way to make her mine.