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‘Wow.’
We mount the stairs and step inside where we’re met by two beautiful air hostesses. ‘Congratulations Mr and Mrs Kincaid,’ they greet us warmly. ‘Sean sends his regards. He’s sorry he couldn’t make your reception yesterday.’
Dominic thanks her, then guides me through to the lounge area of the jet. I’ve never even been on a plane before, let alone a private one. I glance around the cabin, drinking in every detail. Rich wood veneers and gold accents line the walls. The lights are controlled with integrated touch panels. There’s a state-of-the-art entertainment system with a retractable screen and surround sound speakers. A built-in bar with a wine chiller, crystal glassware, and every type of whiskey Beckett’s has everproduced. Dominic guides me into the cream, custom leather seats.
‘What do you think?’ He asks, reaching for the bottle of Beckett’s Black Label champagne that’s chilling in an ice bucket on the table beside us.
I think I’m going to need a new liver.
‘It’s… it’s a lot.’ I’m utterly overwhelmed, to be honest. ‘You and Sean must be really close if he’s lending you his family plane.’
His lips slash open and he flashes me a grin that makes my stomach spin. ‘I told you, we have the same interests.’
I wet my lips, accepting the glass of champagne he offers me.
‘To you, Mrs Kincaid.’ His voice is low and deep, and it does things to me in my stomach and lower.
Mrs Kincaid—who’s sipping champagne on a billionaire’s jet with the leader of Dublin’s most feared organised crime syndicate—who I just so happen to be married to.
It’s official.
I need to write a book.
He clinks his glass against mine.
When the plane finally touches down in Milan, an SUV is waiting outside the airport for us. As we cruise through the city, I soak up the lights, the architecture, the throngs of people tumbling out of clubs and bars. I’ve never seen anything like it. Excitement ripples through me. Dominic watches me through the darkness.
‘You like it?’
‘I love it.’
He reaches for my thigh; fingers tracing small, teasing circles over my bare skin. My nipples peak beneath my dress and he smiles. ‘We’re nearly at the hotel,’ he murmurs.
Good, because I need him like I’ve never needed anything before.
Ten minutes later, the car glides to a silent stop outside a building comprised of sleek stone and glass. I lift my eyes to the façade. Soft uplighting illuminates the entrance to the Bulgari Milano, turning the entire building into a quiet, expensive glow against the Milan night. A doorman in an immaculate coat steps forward as if he’s been waiting specifically for us. Dominic reaches for my hand as a porter takes our luggage from the boot, and I take a seat on the plush ivory couch in the lobby while Dominic checks in at the reception desk.
Finally, he spins to face me with a promising glint. ‘Let’s go. We’re on the top floor.’ We follow the porter along the wide marble-floored hallway to the lift. The mirrored doors glide open silently. He steps inside with us, but Dominic shakes his head, prising the suitcase from his grip. He reaches into his suit pocket, plucks out a fifty euro note and tosses it to him. ‘No, da qui faccio io.’
As the lift doors close, and it rises, so does my body temperature.
‘Where did you learn Italian?’ I gawp at him.
‘The mafia.’ He winks, and it takes me a minute to get that he’s joking. At least I think he’s joking.
‘My mother was Italian. Well, half Italian. Her father was from Rome, her mother was Irish. She insisted all of her kids learned her native tongue. We could speak it fluently before we were four.’
‘So that’s where you get your colouring from. And your temper.’ I tease.
‘And my passion.’ His pupils drop to my lips. Raw sexuality rolls from him in undulating waves that I could drown in.
‘Aoife, if you keep looking at me like that, Iwilltake you right here, right now in this lift.’ He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. He steps closer, brushing his lips over mine.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ The words rush out of my mouth in a whisper.
‘Don’t make me prove it.’ His inky eyes blaze.
Hot flames lick over every inch of my skin. His all-consuming scent seeps into my lungs again. I inch closer, acting on pure animalistic instinct. How have I lived without sex for my entire adult life?
