CHAPTER EIGHT
Juno
ALESSANDRO RICCI IS phenomenal in bed.
At least that’s what I’ve heard other people say about him. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t know, for two reasons: firstly, I’m a virgin, and secondly, he refused to sleep with me when I asked him to.
It wasn’t my finest hour.
The first time we met was at my father’s fiftieth birthday party. Even amongst the plethora of filthy rich, gregariously glamorous socialites that had been invited he stood out like the Sirius star system on a clear night.
I was making my way, head ducked, through the throng of partygoers to a quiet corner to hide out for a while, needing a break from the excruciating, polite conversation that my bully of a father demanded I make with his friends and associates, when my shoulder bumped against something solid and unyielding. Turning to flash whomever it was a look of apology, my gaze locked with a dazzling pair of eyes and my whole world came to a screeching halt, air whooshing from my lungs and a wave of heat rushing up my neck to flood my face.
You see Alessandro Ricci isn’t just handsome—he’s beautiful. Stop-you-in-your-tracks, steal-your-words beautiful. His features appear to be perfectly symmetrical, though I know that’s not physiologically possible. No one’s face is perfect. But he’s as close to perfection as you can get. His bone structure looks as though it’s been carved by a master sculptor; every feature of his face is exactly the right shape and size. As if someone’s taken the best bits of all the most attractive men in the world and put them together to create him.
And his body. It was enthralling to behold. Broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips and long, athletic legs. He was a good few inches taller than me, and I’m no shorty, so I guessed he was well over six foot. He was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, which clung to his body like it loved him, and a crisp white shirt open at the collar to reveal a V of tanned olive skin and just the merest promise of dark, downy hair on his muscular chest.
If you asked me to produce an image of the picture-perfect male figure, he’s exactly what I’d draw.
Caught in that moment, like a wraith between worlds, I found it intensely difficult to look at him—he was that dazzling—but at the same time I couldn’t bring myself to look away.
He in turn looked back at me—or rather assessed me—as if he was stripping me naked with his eyes.
Those incredible eyes.
It makes my body rush with a prickly sort of heat just to think about them now. They were a bright, iridescent green that seemed to glow with a deep, secret knowledge. As though he knew exactly what to do to me to turn me into a gibbering wreck. Instinctively I knew they’d be things I’d never experienced before. Hot, dirty, sinful things.
My whole body throbbed with an unfamiliar sensation that made me clench my trembling hands into fists in an attempt to centre myself.
No one has ever made me feel like that before. Not even Adam.
I’m sure it’s something Alessandro must do to all women, though. According to the people I’ve asked about him, he’s reputedly a world-class seducer and an incorrigible playboy but, even so, when he smiled at me like that it made me feel somehow special and most unusually—attractive. I’ve always been compared unfavourably to my beautiful older sisters—I know I appear washed out and pale in comparison to them, like a photo that’s faded in the sun—and this knowledge has rather knocked my confidence when it comes to attracting men.
I do have one outstanding feature, though—my hair, which reaches all the way down to the middle of my back and is a warm chestnut colour. But, honestly, I’ve never really liked it. It makes me stand out too much. I like to be able to position myself quietly on the sidelines and watch what’s going on around me rather than thrusting myself right into the middle of things like Maya and April do.
I know—logically, and away from Sandro’s mesmerising charisma—that the whole encounter had been a purely physical reaction I’d had to his pheromones, rather than a cerebral connection. I’m usually attracted to someone for their intelligence and enterprise rather than something as superficial as their looks—but it hasn’t stopped me from still wanting things from him.
Wanting him to do things to me.
What exactly those things are, I’m not entirely sure, but I’d bet my first-class degree he’d know exactly what to do to push my buttons. He certainly had that air about him, as if he’d been born with the ability to give women pleasure and was more than happy to utilise it.
The scientist in me makes me suspect he’d make a fascinating anthropological study subject.
Anyway, after I finally managed to pull myself away from his tractor-beam gaze, I hid away in the nearest bathroom and attempted to bring my racing heartbeat under control. Staring at my flushed face in the mirror, I thought about the way he’d looked at me with such intense interest that I’d felt the sensual effect of it all the way down deep inside me. It had made my blood thrum and my skin goose-bump and I’d had a sudden impulsive craving to master that skill myself. As I reflected on how powerful having this ability would make me feel, a germ of an idea began to form in my mind.
After recently living through the pain of being rejected by the man I’ve had a planet-sized crush on for the past year—a man who has one of the greatest minds of our time and with whom I’m lucky enough to work alongside in the cardiovascular research department at St George’s University of London—I’d decided it was finally time to do something about my sexual immaturity. I had to stop letting life happen to me and actively do something about getting what I wanted. I needed to ‘woman up’, as my sister Maya would say, no matter how terrifying the idea of that was. And here, in Alessandro Ricci, I just might have found the perfect person to help me.
So that, my patient friend, is how Sandro came to take a starring role in the sorry tale of my mortifyingly misjudged attempt to lose my virginity.
* * *
It happened at a private party in Chelsea.
It’s not the sort of place you’ll usually find me on a Saturday night. Most weekends I’ll either be at home working on my PhD thesis, or hanging out with a friend, eating fine food and having involved conversations about the state of the world. So walking through a dark, sultry room writhing with half-naked bodies all gyrating to a thumping dance track was definitely not on my usual ‘things to do on a weekend’ agenda.
Maya had given me the tip-off that Alessandro was going to be at the party that night after I’d confided in her about my interest in him and she’d suggested it might be a good place to catch up with him.
