Italian Stallion: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 17) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Man Who Knows What He Wants Series

  Italian Stallion

  Lisa

  Roman

  Leah

  Larry

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Gardener

  ITALIAN STALLION

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 17

  FLORA FERRARI

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  A Man Who Knows What He Wants Series

  Italian Stallion

  1. Lisa

  2. Roman

  3. Lisa

  4. Roman

  5. Lisa

  6. Roman

  7. Lisa

  8. Roman

  9. Roman

  10. Lisa

  11. Roman

  12. Lisa

  13. Lisa

  14. Roman

  15. Roman

  16. Leah

  17. Larry

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Gardener

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2017 by Flora Ferrari.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  Book 1: Baby Lust

  Book 2: Veteran

  Book 3: Built

  Book 4: Bambino

  Book 5: Rescued

  Book 6: Leader

  Book 7: Professor

  Book 8: Burned

  Book 9: Worldly

  Book 10: Pistol

  Book 11: Policed

  Book 12: Driven

  Book 13: Lucky 13

  Book 14: Lumberjacked

  Book 15: Protector

  Book 16: Carpenter

  Book 17: Italian Stallion

  Book 18: Gardener

  Book 19: Budapest

  ITALIAN STALLION

  “When in Rome, do a Roman.”

  I’m Roman D’Angelo, but I’m no angel.

  One helluva f*** and one night of heaven are all any woman will ever get from me. And I don’t f*** virgins.

  So how was I supposed to know?

  Know that she just wanted to pop her cherry before heading home to finish college? Know that I was her dad’s best friend? And know that she was the most incredible young woman in the world, and that she was going to have me as off balance as the Leaning Tower of Pisa?

  She may have come to see the Mona Lisa, but making Lisa moan makes me c**. Mamma mia!

  She tells me it’s time to go, but I won’t stop until she’s walking down the aisle of the cathedral, making her mine forever.

  *Italian Stallion is an insta-everything standalone romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

  Get your FREE extended epilogue of Italian Stallion by signing up to my mailing list. You’ll receive an email as soon as it’s available.

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  CHAPTER 1

  Lisa

  H e’s watching me. I can feel it.

  I can see him across the square in his perfectly tailored suit. He’s sitting alone as his table.

  He is, by far, the hottest guy I’ve seen the last two weeks in Europe. Scratch that. He’s the hottest guy I’ve seen…ever.

  He projects power, sophistication and class. Even in fashion conscious Rome, he stands out. Boy, does he ever stand out. Even seated I can see he’s tall, dark, and handsome.

  He’s not handsome in a boyish way either. Handsome in a smoldering hot, smirking, how ‘bout I take you up to my room and show you my pepperoni stick kind of way. Mamma mia!

  I can hear Stacy’s voice in my ear from five thousand miles away. “Picture or it didn’t happen.” And I can hear Ana in my other ear, “Did you meet any guys? Did you get lucky?”

  The trip has been a bust in the romantic department, but at least I can return with a souvenir for the girls. The kind that doesn’t hang on a refrigerator or a wrist.

  I say a thank you under my breath to Tim, my IT friend back home who convinced me a superzoom travel camera was the way to go. I take a step back and pretend to focus on the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi in Rome’s Piazza Navona. My guidebook said it was featured in Angels & Demons as an Alter of Science. This guy definitely has me feeling devilish and what I wouldn’t give to worship at the alter of his cock right about now.

  I zoom in on his face. He is absolutely perfect. Short dark hair. A light beard. Eyebrows that go up at the end accentuating his bedroom eyes. I’m in total perv mode, just creeping out on this guy…and it feels great. A little too great actually as I feel a wetness starting to form underneath my dress.

  The focus locks in and I can make out the whites of his eyes. Oh my god, he’s staring right at me. Unbreaking eye contact. A deep, dark stare. He looks half pissed and half ready to use me to wipe that olive oil off the plate next to him.

  I freeze. I don’t dare lower the camera now. I take a few steps back and to the side, pretending to get a better angle on the fountain but I’m still watching him.

  And he’s not hiding that he’s watching me. His eyes are tracking me. He’s following my movement. I’m nervous. Totally busted.

  I start counting down from ten. Nine…eight…seven, when I reach zero I’m going to turn and walk away.

  Three…two…one. Suddenly he stands. He moves towards me quickly. Now he’s running directly at me. His leather oxfords announcing his impending arrival as he glides across the cobblestones. He looks pissed!

  His suit jacket is blown backwards due to his speed. He’s obviously athletic. As he runs I can see his muscles through his thin, white, fitted dress shirt.

  He’s ten yards away and closing fast. His arms open wide and he’s in a full on sprint now. My legs are frozen and I brace for impact. Five yards…five feet, and then it happens.

  CHAPTER 2

  Roman

  I see her and the focaccia drops from my hand. The olive oil and prosciutto will have to wait. She’s summoned my salami and has my full attention.

  It had been one hell of a day, but one look at her and everything was right. Perfect actually.

  We receive well over four million tourists a year in Rome, but none of them ever mattered to me. Until her.

  Where was she from, and what was she doing here?

  I watch her as she removes that phallic camera from her bag and brings it to her face.

  Does she think I don’t know what she’s doing?

  I stare right into her lens. I see you, you dirty little girl.

  I’m watching her, waiting for that split second when her index finger moves and she takes my picture.

  Does she know who I am? She’s
obviously not from here, but maybe she’s a fan of our culture and cinema. I know I’m certainly a fan of hers, and my cock is telling me he’s a very, very big fan of hers.

  She takes a step to the side and my eyes narrow. What in the world is she doing? Just take the picture if that’s what you want. I’ll let her have her picture, but the minute she does I’m walking right over there and introducing myself. I’m not letting her get away. Not now, not ever, and certainly not tonight.

  I hear drunken laughter and my eyes dart right. Shit!

  I jump from my seat and take off in a dead sprint towards her.

  Two drunken tourists with meter long selfie sticks on a Vespa, looking at everything but the road.

  It’s going to be close. I breathe in through my nose and out hard through my mouth. Thank god for all those years playing football. I haven’t lost a step, at least not when it comes to saving her.

  The Vespa is closing in on her, but there’s no way I’m not getting to her first.

  Three…two…one! I scoop her up in my arms, lifting her right out of her shoes. I’m still running as I feel the handle bar brush against the back of my jacket.

  They yell something at me, but I don’t even notice. I only see the most beautiful woman in all of Rome in my arms.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lisa

  M y heart’s beating out of my chest and I’m staring up at him. I see the Vespa speed off in the distance and realize he just saved me a whole lot of embarrassment, and probably a lot, lot more.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off mine, just holding me there in his arms. I feel weightless and safe. I can feel his strong, thick forearms, which are holding the weight of my entire body. He’s not straining at all. I feel perfect in his arms, like I belong.

  He leans into me and our lips meet. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I sure like it. He tastes like olives and wine, and smells like the Italian countryside.

  He pulls his face from mine. I miss his lips already. I want him to continue.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Thanks to you.”

  He helps me to my feet, but leaves his hand on the small of my back. His touch is welcoming and protecting at the same time.

  “I’m sorry about those people. Some people think their holiday is an excuse to do all the things they can’t do back home. They think because no one they know sees them, that their behavior doesn’t count.”

  I swallow hard. It’s like he’s reading my mind, because all I’m thinking of right now is him. Him ravishing me all night long and leaving me with nothing more than a story and the inability to walk straight for the next couple days. One night of naughtiness for the girl who’s always been considered too nice.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself,” he says. “I am Roman.” The o in his name is as hard as his muscles, and the a sounds like gasps of pleasure. He doesn’t talk to me, he sings. The way he speaks English with an Italian accent is music to my ears.

  I giggle.

  “You find my name amusing?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Not at all. I’m laughing at myself.”

  “Why would such a beautiful and elegant young woman do that?”

  He’s laying it on thick, but I don’t care. I’m on vacay and I’m sure this guy has plenty of ladies lining up at his door. None of what could happen between us will count once morning arrives, unless of course we’re still going at it then.

  “It’s just that I realized I wasn’t sure if you were saying you are Roman, as in from Rome, or your name is Roman, as in…well, from Rome also I guess.”

  “You are right in both circumstances,” he says.

  Why does being right feel so wrong? So dirty. So filthy. I just want this guy, this Roman, with the bedroom eyes to whisk me away on his chariot and take me to his coliseum.

  I’ll be starting my senior year at college in the fall and I still haven’t had that experience of being with a man, mostly because there are no men at college. Sure there are a few somewhat cute professors and graduate teaching assistants, but those guys are limp spaghetti noodles compared to this man.

  And don’t get me started on boys my own age. Their idea of a romantic weekend includes keg stands in the parking lot while tailgating at a football game. I imagine Roman and I drinking wine in Tuscany as we ride through the vineyard on horses. His perfectly white linen shirt opened, and his muscles rippling as he gallops through the grapes.

  “You still haven’t told me your name,” he says.

  “Lisa.”

  “Ah. How perfect.”

  No one’s ever referred to my name as perfect. It’s not particularly unusual or unique. There have been about three girls named Lisa in every class I’ve ever had since kindergarten.

  “You think my name is perfect?”

  “The most perfect, just like the Mona Lisa. You must be named after her.”

  “Well, I think it was my mom’s favorite aunt, actually, but—“

  “Nonsense. You are the Mona Lisa. My lady Lisa,” he says, his voice trailing off at the end as he takes me in even deeper with his eyes.

  A moment passes as we stare at each other. I want him to say something to break the tension, but I can see he’s fascinated by me. I’m not quite sure why, but it seems real. I’ve heard about guys that hunt girls at famous tourist attractions like the Coliseum or the Eiffel Tower in Paris, but this is different…much different. It’s after midnight and this man is in a suit. He was minding his own business, until he decided that casually saving me would become his business. And now I wanted him to show me the business, as in just what I’ve been missing out on all these years.

  “I’d like to see the Mona Lisa while I’m here,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, but the Mona Lisa is in Paris, at the Louvre.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Many famous Italian works are there. I wish we could have them here, in my country, but unfortunately we do not.” He pauses. “But fortunately I see that there are living works of art if you just no where to look.”

  His hand raises and he places his thumb and forefinger on my cheekbone.

  “I could paint this face for days, studying it in great detail.”

  “You’re a painter?”

  “No, but for the privilege to admire your beauty all day I would become one.”

  It sounds like the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard, but when delivered with an Italian accent by a guy who’s wearing what’s likely an Armani suit and Ferragamo loafers it works.

  “There is an artist inside all of us,” he says. “It just takes the muse to bring it out.”

  His hand slides a locket of hair behind my ear and his face slowly moves toward mine. His lips stop just short. I can feel his breath enter my mouth, which has opened in anticipation. His hand on my lower back tightens as he pulls my body in closer to his.

  My hands come up in-between us and find his chest. Good god, he’s built like a true gladiator.

  “I must taste you, Lisa,” he says and his lips gently meet mine.

  I’ve never had a man tell me he wanted to taste me, and it makes me feel like one of the many Italian deserts I see in the shops of the windows I pass. Like I’m something special, made with care and precision. Like he wants to take his time with me, to use a desert fork and take in only the smallest of bites to prolong the joy of each time he puts me in his mouth.

  And that’s exactly what he does, as he searches for my tongue and sucks it lightly. My tongue’s in his mouth and I feel his hand pulling me in even closer, his gladiator sword is fully drawn, leaving no doubt he wants to slay me all night long.

  His hand drops from my face and slowly slides down my arm. It’s like a feather touch massage until his large fingers reach my wrist.

  “You are so delicate,” he says. “Like a flower.”

  He takes my hand in his. I can feel the power in his digits, the strength in his grasp, even though he’s gentle with me. I want to feel exactly what these hands
can do to me, to really know what it feels like to be manhandled like I’m a tiny rabbit in the hands of a lion.

  “Come with me, please. This way.”

  Wow, he has manners in everything he does. I’m accustomed to this European class and elegance, but I could certainly get used to it.

  He guides us across the piazza and onto a small, narrow side street enclosed by buildings on either side. He presses me against the wall of one of the buildings and wastes no time ravishing me.

  I don’t know what’s harder, the concrete pressed against my back, or the rock hard abs I’m running my hands across in front of me.