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The limo stops, and I turn to view the hotel’s entrance. Surprisingly, we’re on the side, and the entrance is a golden double door with a coiled serpent engraved on it. The place looks deserted.
“Wait here.” Corrado exits and comes around to open my door.
I unfold from the limo, and he gives me a once-over, his gaze lingering on my breasts. My girls are nice, and the fact I’m happy he noticed makes me uneasy. My internal alarms are trying to warn me not to play with this made man, but he feels like iron to my magnet.
Besides, when he said he doesn’t date and he’s always single, he was upfront about his intentions toward me. All he’s asking for is a single night. I can play in his sandbox for one night.
“The gray pantyhose dims your warm appearance. Get rid of it.”
“You want me to strip right out here?”
He nods.
Okay, then. I pull down the side of the pantyhose on my right hip next to the limo and then slide it down my legs, kicking off my heels as I go. “That’s too bad, because gray is my favorite color.” I throw the pantyhose back into the limo.
He offers me his elbow, and I catch it as I slip my heels back on. “The morally gray variants, I’m sure.”
We start walking toward the door. “You’re funny.”
“It comes and goes.”
“For as long as your temper holds, I’m fine.”
Clearly caught off guard by my light comment, which was not so light, Corrado pauses before the door. “You don’t have to worry about my temper.”
“But there is something I should worry about, isn’t there?” I gulp, feeling like I’m crossing over to the dark side and there’s no going back.
“You should worry about the indecent thoughts I harbor toward you.”
“I can live with those.” Oh God, I’m flirting.
“Good.” He starts up the steps, but I tug his arm.
“Wait. What do I have to do?”
“Pretend you’re mine.”
5
MY WIFE
MICHELA
The golden serpent’s head painted in a circle on the door contrasts with the rough handmade charcoal scales carved into its body that blend with the color and design of the rest of the door. I want to run my fingertips over the smooth head, then feel the rough carved edges on the neck part, but I suppress that urge by flexing my fingers instead.
“Changed your mind?” Corrado brushes his fingers over the top of my hand as if reassuring me of something.
I realize I must’ve squeezed his biceps when I flexed my fingers.
I shake my head.
“Good,” he says. “This’ll be fun.” Corrado raps the serpent’s head few times. When nobody answers, he explains, “They’re not expecting me.” He knocks a few more times. “I hoped they wouldn’t retire for the lounge already, but it looks like they might have.”
I unwind my hand from his arm and press my palm over the serpent’s head, then press my ear to the door. “I feel vibrations from the music, and it’s pretty loud, so I’d say they can’t hear you.”
“There’s cameras,” he says. “Someone should be watching the door.” Clearly displeased, he shakes his head.
The door opens to four men dressed in black suits and black ties. They’re each the size of professional wrestlers. Three of them walk out and surround us, while one blocks the entrance. For good measure, he crosses his arms over his chest. At six-four, with bulging muscles threatening to rip open the sleeves of his suit, he’s bulkier than Corrado. They all are, and yet, Corrado seems unfazed.
