Free His To Take: Night One by Kera Whisper

— C H A P T E R  1 — 
     
    Night One . . .
     
    The maiden being ravished by satyrs reminded me of myself. Immortalized on a mural, she was pale-skinned and redheaded with a curvy figure.
    At first I’d thought that this painting hanging on the back wall of Nico Cesan’s private study was just a stuffy medieval piece, with courtly lords and ladies dancing.
    Then my gaze had been drawn to ward the lower right hand corner to a scene of grotesque sexuality.
    The redhead was pinned down on a bed of ivy, surrounded by four satyrs. Their engorged penises were the length of her pale arms, and had bulbous, glistening crowns.
    The four had ripped her dress from her breasts and privates. The smallest satyr straddled her head, forcing the wet tip of his erection against her lips, while another extended his lengthy tongue down to coil around one of her stiff, peach-colored nipples. Still another lay beside her, clutching one thigh wide as he humped her hip and pinched her free nipple. The largest knelt between her legs, gripping his shaft to shove into her.
    One of the maiden’s hands was fisted as she shoved the raping satyr away; her other clutched his chest hair, arm bent as if to drag him closer.
    L ight from the study’s crackling fire flickered over the painting, making it look like the characters were moving, in mid-ravishment.
    As I stared, my breaths shallowed. My nipples grew as hard as the maiden’s, my panties dampening—because for a wild moment, I wished I could change places with her. To be penetrated with those thick penises, forced to take their tongues on my flesh.
    What is wrong with you, Juliet ? Ever since I’d gotten to Italy, my body had been out of control.
    Everything seemed to make me horny—strange for a virginal, homebody caretaker from a judgmental small town.
    For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why a man like Nico Cesan would have a painting like this in his palatial and tastefully-decorated study. Naughty, naughty Nico . It didn’t fit with what I knew of him.
    He was a famous playboy, one of the most powerful CEOs in the world, and “allegedly” had ties to an international underworld of crime.
    I was here because of those ties.
    Reminded of my mission, I forced my gaze away from the maiden, shouldered my hobo bag, and made my way to one of the chairs in front of his massive desk.
    W hen my contact had reached out to him, Cesan had agreed to a meeting with me, inviting me to his Tuscan villa. I didn’t doubt it was because of my Riverleigh last name—the name that had most likely gotten me into my current situation.
    I set down my large ba g, the one that contained my life, then sat. Immediately, I cringed at the steamy wetness in my crotch. My swollen nipples earned a glare. Even in the dimmed firelit room, they were obviously straining against my seamless bra and silk shirt.
    I was already intimidated as hell by all the unmistakable wealth staring me in the face; I d idn’t need to be in heat when Cesan finally arrived.
    What sounded like a helicopt er landed outside, and my heart began racing. Was that him? For a girl like me—whose most recent excitement before this trip was a soap opera cliffhanger—meeting a mega-rich playboy had me in a tizzy.
    For the thousandth time I adjusted my beige skirt, fretting over its length. Why hadn’t I worn Spanx? Was just-above-the-knee too daring? In my backwater hometown of Donovan, Georgia, my outfit would be an acceptable, young professional look. In Italy, it felt matronly.
    My p ink blouse was buttoned almost to the top. I wore minimal makeup: nude lipstick and a little eyeliner to brighten my green eyes. No nail polish, of course. I’d fastened my hair up in a conservative bun, but my natural color was red, really red. In the south, they called my shade harlot red.
    As my sour-faced grandmother always said, “That color’ll get you forever ditched—and never hitched.”
    It was the same color as the maiden’s. Stop thinking