LUCA {Full Book}

6

I rolled away from the light—falling off the couch. Why the fuck was I on the couch? And naked.

My head pounded, focus blurring in and out. I was at the wedding last night, holding my shit together until they called me up to dance with Giorgia for what should have been the father-daughter dance—which fucked us both up. And when her tears fell, I hit the bar.

"Morning."

Fuck! I jerked up, scrambling to my feet, wood instant from the sight of the blonde in my bedroom doorway. Holy shit. Why the fuck was I out here when she was in there?

She walked over, fully dressed, hand brushing down my chest. "Just how I like'em," she purred.

What the fuck was happening?

I locked eyes with hers, wishing they were the black ones I'd dreamed about all night. "Door's over there," I instructed, pointing over my shoulder.

But she dropped to her fucking knees, speaking to my dick. "I have to get going," she told him—before clasping my sack with her hands and my tip with her lips.

Holy fuck. I held her head while she swallowed mine, bobbing down my cock, slopping and slurping, taking me to her throat in five seconds flat, deep-throating like a fucking prize-winner.

Her tongue started spiraling, fingers tightening over my sack, suction coming in for the kill, every ounce of power in my fucking body being siphoned to the dick that was seconds away from shooting off—"Oh, fuck." One bust after another, filling her mouth.

And just like that, she stood, licking the edges of her lips while she adjusted her skirt. Seriously, where the fuck did this chick come from?

"It was nice meeting you," she said casually, with a jizz coated tongue."The wedding was lovely."

The wedding.

She took off for the door, about to walk out. "I added a photo in your phone to remember me by," she said as she closed the door behind her.

My phone? How the fuck had I been so sloppy! I went to my room, checking the keystrokes on the screen, all of which were mine, except for the camera. Hmm? Let's see what you left me. My finger was on the trash icon as the image loaded—Jesus Christ! Full shot of her pussy, knees up, and holy fuck, that was the hairiest fucking pussy I'd ever seen. Oh shit, she was French.

I went to delete it, only to have another pussy pop up, this time Adam's name. After that shit went down with Gav years ago, I took a backseat, tapping out of Adam's lane. Then the heart attack sidelined me, benching me from the game I'd spent the last twenty years running, with Adam at my side.

"Yeah?" I answered.

"We're hitting up Park tonight. Want to join?"

Of course, they were heading there, to the hotel, I'd just left. But, I was in need of a palate cleanser after the French hors d'oeuvre this morning. "I'm in."

I tossed the phone, rolled to my back, got a whiff of some nasty flower scent. That's why I didn't let chicks stay the night and why I didn't want them in my fucking bed. I chucked the to-be-trashed pillow to the floor on my way out to the couch, falling face-first into it.

Less than twenty four hours and I was back at the scene of the crime, bypassing where Giorgia had taken the last name of Martin over Romano and walking straight into the elevator, up to the top floor.

The club was chaos, line looped down the hall, all of Manhattan clamoring to get inside. Good thing this king sat above the rest.

I ignored the line, clearing my throat, sending the ones blocking my path scattering aside. "Damon," I called to get his attention. He'd been the bouncer for ten years, the stories he could tell. I handed him a C-note to keep my name out of those stories.