The Italian Heartthrob Novels & Stories

'' it was unnatural to invite anyone into someone else's room. ''Yes. Thanks'' he walked in as I held the door open. The friendly Italian never once told me his name and I didn't ask for it too but he was as gorgeous as Ace. His long ash-blond hair was messily draping over his shoulder. Tonight, he was wearing a black sweater over gray sweatpants. He seems to dress as cool as possible all the time, not too rugged like that sexy Italian. Both of them have this dangerous yet exciting look going on, a savage combination that would break a girl by falling for them. ''For you'' he raised the box from Supermoon and I smiled brightly.

The only recognizable figure affiliated with this dark underworld was Giovanni Moratto, the city's notorious Playboy, the man who had me pinned down on the floor and now gazed at me with a deadly intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "Not trying to escape at all is being foolish, and I am no fool," I retorted, striving to maintain an air of confidence as I gazed up at him. He crouched down once more and stared at me aligning himself with my line of sight, and asked in a very calm voice that almost broke my confidence "Do you know who I am?" "Am I supposed to?" I countered, my mind racing. Given that Giovanni referred to him as "Boss," this man must be Lorenzo McLaren's right-hand man. H

, I begin. "Fuck, he sounds hot." Adele groans and flattens herself on the bed. I stare off to the side before sighing, "He is, very much so," I respond. "So, who exactly is he? Is he a student at our school or someone you met on a job?" Before I say anything, I glance at her. "He's the next leader of the Italian Mafia." She gasps and sits up straight, her eyes widening in surprise. "Oh god, he's bound to be a fucking king in the sheets."

“By the time morning comes, there won’t be a single clip, picture, or word left about you on the internet. Vittorio will erase the whole damn thing. He’ll kill every last one of them if he has to.” The way he said it, with so much certainty, sent a shiver through me. I hated the idea of blood being spilled, but something warm lit in my chest. Vittorio—he was doing it for me. For my name. “You’re smiling,” Valentino said suddenly. I wiped the corner of my lips. “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.” His eyes softened, but only for a second. “See? Even you can feel it. He’s in love with you. Vittorio De Luca. The man who never loved anyone, not even himself. He’d burn cities just to keep your face cle

"I don't get why I need to have a pretend marriage to a man I don't even know." "Amore mio, Lucas De Marchi came from one of the purest and legendary bloodlines in the entire Italian Mafia." "And you believe that if I marry this Lucas, we—you and I—should be stripped off from the most-hated list in Italian Mafia?" I asked briskly.

He taunts me. Speaking in a soft and even tone, I lean forward, closer toward him. “You're Alessandro-fucking-Valentino. You're untouchable, unstoppable, and oh-so-arrogant.” “Do you want to know what the job is or not?” He breathes out in a tiresome tone as he blows smoke out of his nostrils. “No. I don't want anything from you.” I rise from the sofa, only to be pushed back down by Riccardo. “Keep your filthy mitts off me.” I hiss, sick and tired of being manhandled by these hot-headed Italian men.

But whichever, I couldn't get enough. “Cazzo… mi rovinerai, tesoro…” He made a deep but intense sound at the back of his throat. “Il tuo corpo è fatto per farmi impazzire.” He said in a deep Italian accent that sent waves of heat straight to my core. (Damn… you're going to ruin me, darling…Your body is made to drive me crazy). “I'd give anything to be right there with you tonight.” He said, and I wished more than anything that he was right here with me. I shut my eyes once more, trying to imagine his presence filling this room.

A tear escapes the corner of my eye, but I don’t stop. I hollow my cheeks and take him all the way to the root, feeling my throat open for him. His fingers are tangled in my dark curls, yanking just hard enough to make my scalp sting. The pain is a bright, sharp counterpoint to the throbbing ache between my legs. “That’s it, belle… choke on it,” he growls, his voice rough. That accent—Italian, I’m sure of it now—wraps around the filthy words. “Take every inch. You were made for this.”

My heart was already beating faster than it should. I typed his name into the search bar. Luca Moretti G****e loaded instantly, flooding the screen with results. Articles, photos, business profiles, gossip columns. I clicked on the first image result and felt my breath catch. There he was. Photo after photo of him looking unfairly gorgeous. At charity galas in perfectly tailored black tuxedos. On yachts, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair tousled by the wind. Shirtless on a beach in Ibiza, water droplets running down his toned chest and abs. In jeans and a simple white t-shirt, laughing with friends at some rooftop bar. Different women on his arm in almost every picture — tall models, soci

“And if I come out successful… will I be rewarded with an orgasm?” His grip on her tightened, almost painfully, his body vibrating with need. “You’re really daring, baby girl, don’t push your luck.” He then tilted his head towards an older man across the room, who was laughing like a lunatic, talking to three women and drinking heavily. “That’s your target for the night,” Hades said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper in her ear, his hips grinding deeper. “His name is Vito Carbone.” He gave her his background: “He’s an Italian.”