Sorrento Seduction, page 1
Table of Contents
Sorrento Seduction
Publication Page
Dedication
Praise for Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
Also Available
Also Available
Thank You
Sorrento Seduction
Passport to Pleasure
by
Hanna Park
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Sorrento Seduction
COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Hanna Park
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2022
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4395-2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
This one is for Bob. You never disappoint.
Praise for Author
Hanna Park
FINDING TIEGAN
Winner of the 2021 N.N. Lights Book Awards Best Erotic Romance
“Finding Tiegan is a sweeping erotic paranormal romance I couldn’t stop reading. Emotional, heart-wrenching prose take the reader on a journey of self-discovery, passion, and romance.”
~Mrs. N, N. N. Light’s Book Heaven
~*~
“The chemistry in this book is off the charts. The characters are complex. It kept me turning the pages.”
~Jade C, Mrs. Tosh’s Bookshelves, Goodreads
~*~
“I recommend this book if you are looking for a lust fueled romance filled, gorgeous scenery, a dash of mysticism, and a plot that wanders dreadfully close to a cliff’s edge.
~Athena Drake, Paranormal Romance Team
Chapter One
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t meet you just for nothing”—Anonymous.
Hattie
I steel my mind and still my beating heart. I stand amazed—Matteo DeLuca, identified by the embossed name tag on his powder-blue button-down shirt, sits behind a counter emblazoned with white lettering—the logo of the Sorrento Bike Shop. Chiseled features. Olive skin. And that salt-and-pepper scruff covering his jawbone? The careless sweep of textured locks—midnight shades of black streaked with white lightning? He could be what? A model in GQ Magazine? I pin my lips together and knit my brows. I glower, filled with the knowledge that this man? This Matteo DeLuca could be, might be, in all likelihood, my undoing.
“Looky-see, Matteo, I have it right here—confirmed booking, paid in full. Ayuh? October the ninth, eleven a.m.—E-bike tour, a delicious journey, a passionate guide—food, history, and fun.” I flash my phone’s screen in Matteo’s face. I purse my lips and smash the meanest mean-girl gaze.
He stares at me through darkened shades, his bearded chin resting on the pad of his thumb, his wide lips grazing the knuckle of a long index finger.
Fevered chills run through my bones. And don’t even talk to me about goose bumps. There’s no doubt in my mind this man is the undoing of many women.
“So what are you saying? No can do? Is that it? You want me to leave?” I tap my flaming-red fingernails—my go-to shade, Do You Wanna Make Me Hot to a techno beat—do you wanna, do you wanna. I roll his name over in my mind—Matteo DeLuca. Wowzers. One wicked diversion. Ayuh? No-suh? Maybe not something I need—not today.
“Signorina? Signora? Smith? I apologize. We have no food and wine tour today.” He turns the computer screen toward me. “You registered for the Mount Faito bike tour, a tour suitable only for serious bikers—for trained athletes. Not for the faint of heart.” He glances at his wrist, adorned with an old-fashioned watch—a big-faced compass rose. “And I’m sorry to say, signorina, but that tour left three hours ago. Do you have your passport?”
“My passport? What? No, it’s on the bus. Why do I need my passport? Look, I know what I booked. I have a confirmation email.” My stomach churns. My cheeks flame hot. I scroll through my inbox, searching for the original booking request. I resist the urge to be agreeable—and to walk away. I booked this tour—I paid for this tour, and I want what I paid for. What’s wrong with that?
“A passport is required identification for all foreigners, signora.” He turns from the computer screen, angles his face toward me, and removes his sunglasses.
I stare unblinking, mesmerized by eyes seething sensuality—black as night, heavy-lidded capped by brows any girl would die for—thick and naturally arched. Those eyes—seethe sensuality.
“If you have your passport, I can offer a refund.” Matteo’s well-defined brows furrow. He rubs his chin between his thumb and index finger.
The walls of my vagina tingle, coaxing my inner goddess to toss aside the heavy blanket of slumber and awaken. My mouth dries, my belly flutters, and that achy feeling strikes the core of my very being. I sway from side to side, lost in the clenching throes of an imagined orgasm. I linger in the moment and take pleasure in the sight before me. The longer I look, the longer I want.
His scent—sandalwood and something else, oil and grease—is an appealing mixture. His voice—a rhythmic intonation of soft vowels tinged with a heavy accent, is somehow melodic and pleasing to the ear. No wonder they say Italian is the most romantic language in the world.
“Signora, a mistake has been made. Perhaps we can make an exception and offer a refund. Do you have your credit card?” A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I wonder, have I ruined his day?
“But I don’t want a refund. I booked the food and wine tour.” Unable to ignore the rising heat, the tingling sensations, my thoughts flash to the last time I had sex with a man. Jonathan Burke, the Jonathan Burke, one of the many blue bloods who inhabit the New England shore. Yeah-suh—a man who owns ten pairs of boat shoes of varying muted shades meant to match his formidable collection of five-pocket twill khakis. The last thing he said stuck in my head forevermore. Hattie, darling, don’t you think we would have more fun as friends? Ayuh…a total fucktastrophy. Damn.
“I’m sorry, Micetta. You did not book the food and wine tour. You booked the full bike tour—five grueling hours of heart-racing adrenaline to the very top of Mount Faito. It is a spectacular ride, and as I said, for the very fit. If you would like to come back tomorrow?”
I indulge myself a moment longer and then chuff through my nose—dragon fire, as Nan would say. “I’m not a Signora Smith. I’m Hattie. Just plain Hattie will do perfectly fine, thank you very much. And I don’t want a refund. And what are you implying? That I can’t keep up? You don’t think I’m fit?” I spit the words. I inhale a short gasping breath. Dear God, when did I turn into such a bitter old sea hag?
“Hattie.” Smiling, he skates away from my face, lower, then lower still—he blinks once and then twice. His lower lip invites a taste—his eyes sparkling like diamonds in an inky sky.
My inner goddess luxuriates. My nipples peak and harden. My core throbs. I bite down on my lower lip, harnessing the pulsing vibrations.
“Eyes, Matteo—eyes!” I jab a two-finger point to my eyeballs.
“I am sorry, signorina. Sei, come dici, estraneo.” He doesn’t even blush. No, he sighs each word, one lingering caress after another: his voice—a smooth Barolo with a crisp finish.
“Perhaps a different excursion can be arranged? The cable car to the top of Faito? A hike down the mountain to Positano? I will pay for a driver. You will be safe.”
“It’s Hattie. Just plain Hattie.” I cut him off. I throw my hand into the air. “Look, Matteo. I can’t take the cable car—I can’t go hiking. I have to catch the ferry to Naples. It must be today—tomorrow is too late. I’m leaving—going home. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m sorry. Say that again?”
“Say what?”
“Car, say that again—car. Where are you from, Hattie Smith? The United Kingdom?”
“The UK? No, I’m from The United States of America. Bar Harbor? Maine? Down east.” I enunciate best I can but fail miserably. Hollywood has done her best to exploit the New England accent. “Why are you laughing?”
“It is your accent. The way you speak. It is adorable.” He smiles, and the soft skin around his eyes crinkles.
“As I was saying, Matteo. Rescheduling is not an option. So what would you have me do? Forget the whole thing?” I square my shoulders, somewhat relieving the chokehold my brand-new sports bra inflicts on my ample cleavage—a strapless wonder, bought specifically to ride a bicycle on bumpy dirt roads. “Certainly, there must be someone who can accommodate my booking.”
“I have no staff today. The Chestnut Festival in Faito. The Grape Festival in Priora. What would you have me do?” He pins his fingers together, flipping his wrists upward, expressing his thoughts with his hands.
“What about you, Matteo? Can you not fulfill this commitment? I would ha
“I agree. That would be bad for business. But, unfortunately, signorina, you booked the wrong tour. Do you see my predicament?” His eyes darken. His lips harden. He leaves the stool. Placing his hands flat on the counter, he rises to his full height—a good foot and half taller than my five foot two.
“And can you not see mine?” I spit the words. What’s got me so riled up? Why now? What is it they say? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride? The gut-wrenching truth, a truth I don’t want to face…Hattie Smith—that’s me—turns forty at the stroke of midnight, a milestone birthday. That’s right, the big four-oh, and as usual, my dance card is empty. Single at forty—I let that thought settle in for the umpteenth millionth time. I swallow hard.
A freelance writer for Lovestruck Magazine, a monthly online publication based in my hometown of Bar Harbor, Maine, I chase down celebrity relationships, the steamy, the torrid. In addition, I write a Dear Hattie column on the side for the local daily. Ayuh. They, as in friends, relations, and the public at large, run to me with all their heartache and pain. Hattie solves problems. Hattie gives advice—good advice. Thank you, Hattie. I love you, Hattie.
And now, here I am, on the eve of the last day of the last half of my life, provoking this gorgeous man—more like poking a bear with a stick. I should hang my head in shame. I should run—hightail it to some ancient fountain and drown myself. God knows I’ve thrown pennies enough into each one—a wish for luck, a wish for love, a wish for fucking great sex. How pathetic is that? My eyes well, tears threatening.
“Che cos´è, signorina, you are crying?” His face pales. His mouth drops open. He backs away from the counter.
“What’s that? No, of course not. I’m not crying.” I sniffle, focusing too long at the gold chain around his neck, at the amulet resting in curlicues of dark hair, a corni—a white horn believed to ward off evil spirits, to bring good luck to the wearer. Fixating on Matteo’s hands, at his fingers—absent of jewelry, I wonder if he’s married, if he has family, a wife, and children waiting at home. Oh dear God, what is wrong with me?
Matteo offers a box of tissues.
I take two.
He circles the counter and clasps my elbow, leading me to a green-painted bench running the length of the wide hallway. “Signorina, you’ve traveled a long way in such heat, no?”
“I guess. No. I don’t know. It’s not that. It’s nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.” I wipe my nose. Pressing thick layers to both sides, I squeeze my eyes shut and honk.
“What is it, Micetta? Tell me.”
“It’s not the heat. I’m sorry. It’s stupid. It’s just, well. Tomorrow’s my birthday.”
“Your birthday?” His eyes soften. He walks across the shiny floor to a stand-up cooler filled with energy drinks. He returns with a green glass bottle. He cracks the seal, and the bottle fizzes. Our fingers touch, and my heart skips. “Lemon Spritz—a local favorite. Drink. Please. You will feel much better.” He studies me, his brow creased.
I pull back on the bottle, swallowing long gulps of tangy citrus, anything to avoid Matteo’s penetrating gaze. I admire his feet, naked bare feet—gloved in cap-toe, caramel-colored leather loafers. Adorning the walls, glossy prints of cyclists racing down the steep slopes of Mount Faito.
“What brings you to Sorrento? To Italy?” He sits on the bench, his knee grazing mine.
“Oh, I’m here with my nan, on a bus tour? A taste of Italy—a journey from Venice to Rome to Sicily. A present to celebrate my birthday.” Who’s kidding who? Nan hates traveling alone—something we have in common, and my birthday provided Nan with the perfect opportunity. Kill two birds with one stone, ayuh? She’s a wily old bird, my nan. I swallow another gulp of tangy lemon goodness.
“And you’re in Sorrento alone? By yourself?” He narrows his eyes, bringing those damn eyebrows together.
“I am. Eighteen days on a bus tour is a long time, if you know what I mean.” This particular diversion, this e-bike tour, this getaway from Nan—I planned eight months ago. As much as I love the old bird, a tour bus filled with white-haired elders all over the age of seventy-five—just say, seventeen days in, and I’m ready to blow my brains out. I know that’s not fair. And how can I be so ungrateful?
“And you are enjoying Italy? You have seen many sights?”
“You could say.”
As the wheels of the bus rolled through Italy’s rustic countryside, I drank bottles of wine, polished off too many pizzas, and likely plastered another five pounds across my backside. And today, while Nan discovers the ruins of Herculaneum, an ancient town buried under the volcanic ash of Mount Vesuvius’ infamous eruption, way back in 79 AD, I struck out on my own, an easy ferry ride from Naples, to explore the clifftop splendor of Sorrento.
“Would you like another drink? Something to eat? A cannoli, perhaps?”
“Hmm, sounds delightful, but no, no thanks. I should probably go.”
In two strides, Matteo reaches the entrance door. He flips a laminated cardboard sign from open to closed.
“What are you doing? Why did you lock the door?” I bite down on my lower lip, unable to look away from his belt buckle—the tail of leather looped and hanging over tapered white trousers. Heat races through my veins—a tingling firestorm of sensation.
I wonder what he would look like in his birthday suit.
“How are you feeling, Hattie Smith? Better?” He claps his hands together, drawing my attention upward.
“I am. I’m fine. Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, and I’m not usually like this. You know? So emotional. I’m not.” I grope for the right words and can’t find them.
“I would like to offer my services. I am not much of a tour guide, Hattie. But I know this town well.” He bunches the fingers on his one hand, throws them to his lips, and extends his hand in a broad flourish.
“You will? Why would you do that?”
“This is a special occasion, no?”
“Yes, but.”
“Sono innamorata del tuo sorriso, Micetta.”
“What was that?”
“Have you ridden an e-bike before?” He strides down the long hallway, leaving me with no option but to follow.
“Ayuh. Many times.” I shift my backpack over my shoulder, trailing him toward the back of the building. He moves with fluid motion, every muscle in his body toned, well-oiled, and efficient. My sneakers squelch on hard linoleum as I fight to keep up.
The hall opens onto what must have been a warehouse in days past, an ample space three stories high. Lifting my head, I gape at walls camouflaged in color, at cables and pulleys stretching the vast expanse, at windowed garage doors fronting on a back alleyway.
“Wow, you have a lot of bicycles,” I say, taking in rows upon rows of bicycles lined up by style and size. The smell embraces me: rubber, oil, and traces of lemon.
A boy, wearing a red ball cap backward, stands behind a stainless-steel counter, twirling a steel wrench between his fingers. The wrench slips from his grasp, clanging off the polished concrete floor.
“I’m closing the shop, Angelo. Finish up and lock the doors,” Matteo says and then sizes me up.
“Micetta.” He glides a shiny electric-blue knobby-tired road bike toward me. He pats the seat. “Our bikes are pedal-assist with a max speed of twenty-five kilometers. You set the power, here, on the handle.” He steps to the side, holding the handlebars. He motions with one hand. “Here we have a complimentary water bottle for the ride, and down below a safari pannier for any items you would like to stow.” He studies me, blinking once and then twice.
“I’m good. No worries. I have my backpack.”
“Excellent, I would recommend a helmet.” He swings the doors of a metal cabinet open, returning with a flashy orange bucket helmet stamped with the Bike Sorrento logo. “Try this on for size.”
“Thanks.” I pull the helmet over my head, wiggling it back and forth. “Too big.”
“Ah.” Matteo returns with another. But this time, he lifts my chin with the back of his knuckles, plunks the helmet onto my head, and gives the helmet a hard twist. “Better?”
