Italian Short Stories Novels & Stories

I wanted to taste him! “Miss?” His voice snapped me out of my daze, and I smiled awkwardly. “Hello! Welcome to Paradiso Galleria. My name is Luca Fabbri,” he said, extending his hand. Ohh… He’s Italian! No wonder his sex appeal was off the charts! I’d never been with an Italian before. I had slept with a Frenchman once during a trip to Paris. He had a huge package, but sexually, he was disappointing. But I’d heard Italian men had mad skills in bed, though they were also notorious womanizers.

“I understand, but I would miss you, Frankie. I rubbed my feet against him playfully. — I would miss you too, but you know why I can't stay. He hurt me many times. — What's a little love without heartache? — he said with a sad smile. —The Italians have an expression, ' l'amore non è bello se non è litigarello. ' It means a little fight every now and then makes a good relationship. May you emerge stronger for it. — Fights? — I snort. — He locked me in a dungeon, left me on a yacht in the middle of a hurricane and banished me to live under guard where I was kidnapped.

Camilla's POV I never meant to crave him like this. It sneaks up on me, this sick twisted hunger, wrapping around my thoughts like smoke until I can't breathe without tasting it. Three months ago, everything shattered because of my father's stupidity. He gambled away money he never had, borrowing from shadows he couldn't outrun, stealing from one of the most dangerous man in Italy. The Mafia, Dario Moretti—The Bloodhound—they call him that for a reason. He tracks down what's owed, stolen, and he doesn't forgive. When Dario found out my dad had stolen from him, he didn't hesitate. He took the only thing left with any real value. Me.

There was one solitary, big book on a low table between them. "The title of the tale is The Binding of Autumn," he began, his voice an entrancing whisper just in harmony with the shriek of the fire. “It's the tale of a harvest god who offers a mortal woman a choice: one night of absolute freedom for one year of unimaginable riches for her people." He didn't move as his eyes met hers. "The consent is the matter at hand. It must be freely bestowed, not coerced, and whispered three times into the skin of his throat." “Do you have any idea what sort of story you're going to be reading me tonight?”

his accent is a mix of Italian and something else that I don’t care to name. I press my lips into his, wanting to taste his richness. He kisses me back. He’s impolite, hands grasping wherever in true Italian fashion, but there’s something raw about him. Something extravagant. He forces himself out of my mouth, and plants himself in the cleavage that I had teased him about earlier. ”Such lovely bréasts,” he comments. I’m honored. Italian women have great bréasts. I work his zipper down and free him of his agonizing erection, gasping when I see his length.