First of all, you weren’t even supposed to be there. The party was for celebrities and rich people, and you were just a fangirl hoping to meet her crush. But you were pretty—and sometimes, that was all it took.
It all started months back, when you checked his calendar, like you always did, and saw the event listed. A company he was repping, something he couldn’t possibly skip. Six months out, you began planning. Rationed meals. Buses, trains, cycling to work. Every sacrifice went into tickets, lodging, and that killer dress you’d saved on Pinterest forever.
Every day you crossed off the calendar. Counted down. Dreamed.
When the day finally came, you told everyone you were off on a long-overdue vacation. Not a lie. You’d worked yourself raw all year. You deserved this. No one asked what, exactly, Italy meant to you.
In front of the mirror that night, you painted your face with care. The dress dipped scandalously low and split all the way up your thigh.
Slutty? Maybe. Did you care? Not at all.
You hadn’t half starved yourself and run your shoes ragged just to care what anyone thought of “decent.” You were getting your reward one way or another.
At the door, the bouncers checked access cards. Inconvenient.
You tugged your neckline lower. A nipple was one slip away from freedom. Perfect.
A glance told you which guard looked desperate. You joined his line. A few well-placed laughs, a flutter of lashes, and you were inside—lifting a glass of champagne with a victorious smirk.
God, you loved being pretty.
A scan of the crowd and there he was. The sight made your thighs clench. No panties under the dress, by design. Where fabric would’ve caught your slick, it ran shamelessly down your thighs. You ducked into a bathroom, wiped, whispered a quick mantra into the mirror, and slipped back out into the crowd.
A wealthy man with silver hair tried to make small talk. Another time, you might have considered. But tonight you had one goal. You gave him a polite smile and slipped away.
The things you did for him.
When you finally found him again, he was mobbed—models, actresses, women with money. You couldn’t blame them; he was delicious. But tonight, he was yours.
You waited for your opening, then darted in with the shy request for a picture. He smiled, pulled you in close. First mistake. The careful layering of your perfume engulfed him. His eyes flicked down, just once. If you hadn’t been watching, you would have missed it.
Respectful hand placement. No leer. Exactly as expected.
Later, when you joined him on the dance floor, you matched his awkward rhythm and laughed at his silly moves. It worked. When the song ended, he took your hand, led you off to the side, into the glow of low blue and red lights.
You ate together, talked, laughed. You said the right things, parroted his hobbies, his tastes. Soulmates on the surface. You didn’t mention the file hidden deep in your system.
The first time your knuckles brushed his thigh, you both laughed. The second time, the laughter thinned. The third, he caught your hand, slid it higher.
Time stopped.
The bass thumped. The lights blurred. You shifted your dress just enough and guided his hand beneath the slit. His fingers found you; your palm pressed against his heat. For a moment you sat there, lost in each other’s hands, pretending the world wasn’t watching.
Then he leaned in, voice rough at your ear as he slipped a keycard into your palm: Room 406. Now.
It took every ounce of self-control not to run all the way upstairs.
He waited a beat, greeted a few more people, then followed.
The suite was mostly quiet, insulated from the noise below. He slammed the door shut, already tugging your dress up. You barely had time to gasp before he spun you toward the wall, pressing you hard into it.
“Fuck—” was all you managed before his fingers dragged up your slit and came away soaked. His laugh was ragged, disbelieving. “You came ready.”
“I’ve been dreaming of this for a long time. I’m not letting a scrap of lace get in my way,” you shot back, grinding against him.
He let out a rough sound at that, his hands tightening on the fleshy curve of your hips. He shoved your legs wider with his knee, freed himself, and without warning he was inside you, bottoming out with one brutal thrust.
You cried out, nails clawing at the wall. The bass from the party below still thumped faintly through the floor, but all you could hear was the obscene slap of skin and the raw sound of his grunts in your ear.
He fucked you hard, no finesse, like he’d been craving you just as much. His hand wrapped around your throat, his teeth scraped your shoulder, and every filthy thrust pushed you closer to madness.
“I’ve been watching you since you flirted your way into the party. You’re the most beautiful girl in that room. Look at you,” he growled, angling you toward the gilt mirror on the wall. Your face was wrecked—lips parted, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth—as he slammed into you. “God, you’re a beautiful mess. Fucking perfect.”
His words wrapped around you in all the right places, plunging you deeper into your dark pit of delusion. You thrust your hips back with wild, frantic vigor.
When you came, it was loud and shameless. He pulled out just in time to spin you, drag you to the bed, and shove you down on your back.
Round two was worse. Better. Filthy.
He spread your thighs open like he owned them, spat on your pussy, and slid back in slowly, just to watch your eyes roll. His hand clamped your jaw, forcing you to hold his stare. “Is this as good for you as it is for me? I don’t know who you are, but I swear you were made for me.”
“Yes,” you gasped, not even ashamed. “Yes it is… I fucking love you. I want all of you. Do it harder.”
He gave it to you. Ruthless strokes that had the sheets soaking, your body bouncing, the headboard rattling the wall. You clawed his back, bit his shoulder, begged, screamed. He slapped your tits, your clit, anywhere he could reach, and still murmured things between the filth: “Pretty girl.” “Take it.” “You taste so good.”
By the time he spilled inside you, you were wrecked—sweaty, trembling, throat raw from screaming.
He pulled out, walked into the bathroom, wet a towel, and wiped you clean. Then he tucked himself back in with maddening calm, as if he hadn’t just sent you to Jupiter and back.
He addressed you with a small smile. “I have to get back to the party. Wait for me. I’ll be back before morning. We can spend the day together.”
You smiled back, and he left.
Walking to the mirror, you salvaged what you could of your makeup, then picked up his keycard and slipped out of the room.
At the lobby, you left the card at the reception, mumbling a story about how he’d let you use his bathroom.
Then you walked out of the hotel and returned to your life.
He’d probably never see you again, and he didn’t know your name. But it didn’t matter.
Because whatever happens in Italy… you smiled into your tears …stays in Italy.
