EIGHTY-FIVE.

ALESSANDRO, AKA DON VALENTINO.

I lean back in my chair, tilting my head upwards as I stare at the pristine white ceiling.

Ivy…

She is all I think about, taste and desire.

Her name is like a haunting melody that only rings louder in my ears as time moves on.

After she sent me a message last night stating that she would be unable to attend dinner, I took the liberty of calling an old friend in the expectancy that she would be able to fuck the memories of Ivy Bishop out of my head.

I drove myself to the city's little intimate club, which is well-known for its booths in every corner that is completely blacked out and reserved entirely for fucking to the beat of the music.

We drank, danced, she was in fits of laughter at every word I spoke, and when the time came for her to jump on my cock, it was limp.

Fucking lifeless.

And regardless of what technique she used to make it hard, it was futile.

Even my cock is loyal to Ivy Bishop.

Knock! Knock!!

“Come in!” I mutter, brushing a hand ov