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Private Desire — Forbidden Temptation

Contents

  1. Cover
  2. About the Series
  3. About the Book
  4. About the Author
  5. Private Desire — Forbidden Temptation
  6. Copyright
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9

About the Series

Sizzling love stories packed with erotic suspense — this e-book series features self-contained erotic love stories in picturesque settings.

About the Book

Antonella is a beautiful, strong thirty-eight-year-old woman who’s just made partner at a major law firm in Rome. She has always put her career first. But one day, her firm takes on the defense of Leone De Lellis — a young, spoiled and standoffish member of a wealthy Roman family. Leone is accused of burglary. He’s the typical upper-class boy, who believes he can have anything he wants, that the world owes him. And yet with his swarthy good looks, and with that cockiness of his, Leo manages to upset the inaccessible Antonella, breaking down her barriers and challenging her beliefs. It doesn’t matter that he is a lot younger than her. Thus begins a thrilling discovery of overwhelming sensual passion that will lead Antonella to a new, unknown side of herself …

About the Author

Beatrice De Carli lives in Milan, where she works in communications for a well-known publishing group. She lives with a very patient man for whom she cooks imaginative aphrodisiac dishes. She loves shopping and collects shoes. Writing erotic stories is her new passion.

1

So there she was, leaning agaist the desk, sweaty and panting, with tears in her eyes. She couldn’t believe this. She couldn’t believe herself. But it’d happened and she couldn’t deny it. She could choose to not think about it, but the situation proved that it had happened for real: her disheveled hair, her unbuttoned shirt, her black lace panties lying there — on the carpet in her law firm in Piazza di Spagna. She was barely lucid enough to call her secretary: “I’m not here for anyone, Ester. For at least the next hour, do not forward any calls or let anyone in.”

She had to put herself back together again, and calm down. She had to reconstruct her “perfect woman” look before she could leave the room. And she had to understand. What was going on with her? And how could this be happening to her, of all people?

Antonella had always been uptight; she had always wanted to make it. Maybe because her family was like too many others. Her father worked in a factory and was constantly tired and angry at the whole world. Her mum, a beautiful woman, was a failed actress who sacrificed her life to look after her family. So Antonella grew up thinking that something was missing, even just a little treat every now and again — having her hair done or buying a new dress, for instance. When she was a little girl, she would look at herself in the mirror and swear a thousand times: “I’ll never, never end up like her, I’ll never end up like mum.” She had always been a good student, smart and nerdy, and she ignored her “cool” classmates who’d make fun of her. She was completely unaffected by her stupid girlfrends who thought of “finding a boyfriend” to settle down. Even then, her only purpose was to leave that world behind. She chose to go to a posh highschool, even though she wasn’t posh herself. It didn’t matter: she had her mother’s beauty and the determination of a racehorse. She would go far, she would study law, she would become a rich and well-known professional. Nothing could come between her and her dream: not a man, not even her family, not any obstacle. She would carry on alone, and she would make it.

And she had made it.

She was right there, leaning agaist her mahogany desk, next to the ficus she got from her best friend Marta the day she became partner at the prestigious law firm where she worked, and Piazza di Spagna was right there outside the huge window: everything in the room was a sign of success. And yet today, those black lace panties thrown on the carpet, ripped off by a man who’d possessed her with ardour, in silence, without a caress or a gesture of love, shattered all her certainties.

Antonella was a successful, thirty-eight year old lawyer, determined and stubborn (“definitely a Taurus,” her mum would say with pride at every victory of her daughter’s). She was crying, as she never had before. She had never shivered or cried — till she knew him.

She was still wet, and she wanted to fight against the pleasure that was still lingering in her. Her nipples were hard after being mercilessly bitten, her legs were still open, shaky and sore due to trying to keep her balance under his weight. She was soaked with sweat. Her white silk Armani shirt was now so crumpled that she couldn’t wear it, and it smelled of him. Her skirt was still pulled up, uncovering her naked buttocks. The skirt of her Prada suit was lifted up, just as if she were a whore. He’d left her like that. And she was still motionless, almost hoping that time would stop, that that moment of intoxication and madness, that instant of absurd submission would never end, almost hoping that he would come back and take her again, countless times, and that the whole world would see them. That the world would see her, Dr. Cascitto: never a mistake, never a smear — beautiful, perfect, and soulless — and now she was there, wet, shivering, and oblivious, after having been, very simply, “fucked.”

2

Ester had booked an appointment with Cavalier De Lellis and his wife for 11 a.m. Although autumn was at the door, it was still summer in Rome. At 7:30, Antonella was already at the law firm. She was determined and methodical: she hated delays and inaccuracies. She got up every morning at 6:30 a.m., did yoga for fifteen minutes, took a hot shower, and opened her enormous closet looking for a suit. She “only” wore suits, preferably black or blue Prada ones; but also Armani, and white or light blue silk shirts by Armani or Jil Sander. She “only” wore Jimmy Choo pump shoes, either black or beige. And her handbags had to be Chanel, and Chanel “only.” Her style betrayed the intention of being always and “only” the same Antonella, with very rare variations on the theme. When she went out for dinner with colleagues or lovers, she wore a little black or light-colored dress (the color depended on the season). On weekends, she usually worked from home wearing a sweatsuit. And if she met up with a friend, she’d put on a pair of skinny jeans, a shirt, and a cashmere jumper or a light blazer. It was her way of being posh. It was her way to remind herself, every morning, every time she looked at herself in the mirror, that she’d made it.

Gone was the girl that looked jealously at her wealthy and spoiled classmates, dreaming of a Naj-Oleari handbag and — being unable to afford it — pretended to despise it. Then her first paycheck came. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to treat herself, and buy some real clothes. Beautiful ones. Ones that looked good on her and showed everyone the perfect shape of her hips, the firm roundness of her breasts, her long and agile back ending in perfectly carved buttocks.

Every morning she would have a coffee in the office, read a newspaper, and have a short break until eight, when her secretary would come in with a thousand things to get done. That day, before seeing Mr. and Mrs. De Lellis, she had a meeting with the other partners: after thirteen long years of hard work, during which she had proven to be an excellent attorney by winning some important cases, she had become partner at the law firm. She felt invincible. She never wanted to do good, save the poor or protect the less fortunate — there were charities and nuns for that. She wanted to be rich and respected. She had decided to take on the De Lellis case because it would get her even closer to the Roman upperclass: not corrupt politicians, but aristocratic, rich and powerful Romans. This way, she would also gain the visibility in the media that she was still lacking.

Mr. and Mrs. De Lellis were snobbish aristocrats.

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