About Breathless for Him:
As a gifted opera singer, Allegra Orsini’s only obsession is music-until she meets him. A strikingly handsome and powerful man with a life splashed across the tabloids, Davison Cabot Berkeley isn’t what she expected. He’s unlike the other wealthy patrons who dine at Le Bistro. Davison sees more than just a coat-check girl working her way through grad school. And from the moment he looks at her, those deep green eyes ignite a fire inside Allegra she’s never felt before. She craves Davison’s touch-his possession-endlessly. Even though every fiber of her being is telling her to stay away, that it’s best for both of them, she can’t. As his passion consumes her, Allegra can no longer deny Davison’s hold on her. He’ll never let her go. But as much as she wants him, Allegra can’t surrender to his love-not until she faces a painful secret from her past that could destroy them both . . .
Before I can stop him from making a spectacle of himself, he leans in and pulls my hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles on both of them. I let go and cup his face as he places his hands over mine again, stroking them back and forth.
“Thank you, baby. Thank you.”
“I missed you so much, Davison.”
He licks his lips as he starts to stroke my hand with his thumb, the same motion he made that first night we met when he asked me that question. My torso starts to flutter, sending goose bumps up and down my body. I can feel my cleft clench with heated desire.
“If we weren’t in public right now…” he murmurs.
Any other time, I’d be pissed off at his rude connotation, but at the moment, I don’t mind at all because I feel exactly the same.
“Get the check, Harvard. Now.”
He replies with a wicked smile and doesn’t even bother asking for the bill. He pulls out his wallet, throwing a twenty on the table. Yanking me by the hand, we fly out of the café. His grip on my hand threatens its circulation, but the pain only increases the heat that is close to erupting inside me. Our attached hands are a live current, the energy pulsating between us, just proving to me how much we had truly missed each other.
We’re almost running, not saying a word to each other. We need to be somewhere private. It hits me that it’s Saturday, the busiest morning for my father at work, and I just left him in the shop.
“Follow me,” I command him.
We finally get back to my building, and thankfully I don’t see anyone familiar outside. I don’t want anyone reporting back to Papa that I’m taking Davison inside our home without him there. Even though I’m a grown woman, I still live under my father’s roof. My traditional, old-school father’s roof.
By the time we reach my apartment on the fourth floor, we’re both panting from exhaustion. I grab the key Papa and I keep hidden on top of the door frame and let us in.
Within seconds, Davison takes my hand and slams me against the door, shutting it with a thud. We devour each other, just like we did the first time in his Maybach. The taste of his hot tongue twisting with mine is the food I have been craving all this time.
We moan and whimper as we kiss, our grips on each other’s bodies becoming corporeal vises.
“Allegra,” he rasps between kisses.
I need more. I tug him to the living room, pulling him down with me onto the couch. His long, solid body stretches over mine, his hard cock straining against his zipper. He shoves his hands under my sweatshirt, then groans in complaint when he feels my T-shirt underneath.
I hear Davison mutter, “Fuck. You’re killing me, baby,” as I laugh to myself.
He pushes both up with his hands, feeling for my breasts. With a growl, he clamps his lush lips over one nipple as I throw my head back in ecstasy, kneading the other breast with his left hand.
“Yes, Davison…” I moan.
The sensation of his warm tongue on my body, sucking, nipping, biting, pushes me to the brink. I need him to make me come, to feel him inside me.
As if he’d read my mind, his right hand travels down under the waistband of my yoga pants, blindly searching for my cleft. Once he finds my pussy, he shoves two fingers inside me, massaging it, sighing in the feel of my wetness that is for him, that was caused by him.
“Oh, baby, you’re soaked already. You want me, don’t you?” he rasps into my ear.
I whimper in reply to him, not at all able to form a coherent word.
With the heel of his hand, he presses down on my cleft at the precise angle over my clit, and I bite down on my lower lip to keep me from screaming aloud, knowing how thin the walls are in my building, but the rest of my body shudders from the release of my orgasm.
Davison sits up, yanking me with him. I cover myself up as he pulls me into his arms. We kiss each other gently, our lips swollen. Wholly spent, I rest my head on Davison’s shoulder.
“Baby?” he pants.
“How do you say ‘crazy’ in Italian?”
“Because you are fucking pazza to bring us back here for a heavy make-out session when your father is working downstairs.”
“Hey, we needed someplace private to do what we just did. You’re not complaining, are you?”
“Are you kidding? That was…”
I look up at him when he pauses, and he’s staring at me, his eyes soft, his lips smiling fully across his face.
“I’m just really happy right now,” he says, stroking my face with his thumb.
“You can be such a sap, Mr. Berkeley, but I promise I won’t tell.”
About Sofia Tate:
Sofia Tate grew up in Maplewood, NJ, the oldest of three children in a bilingual family. She was raised on 70s disaster films and 80s British New Wave music and classic tv miniseries. Her love for reading started when she received a set of Judy Blume books from her aunt when she was ten. She discovered erotic romance thanks to Charlotte Featherstone. She loves both writing and reading erotic romance. She graduated from Marymount College in Tarrytown, NY, with a degree in International Studies and a minor in Italian. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University. She has lived in London and Prague. Sofia currently resides in New York City.