The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(4)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

Her voice was breathy as she spoke, but the Prince tuned out her words, moving closer so he could catch a glimpse of her lovely face.

At the sight of it, flushed with passion, his old heart quickened and he felt the stirrings of arousal.

It was not his custom to observe rather than participate. But on this occasion, he decided to make an exception. Careful to remain in the darkness, he moved to the wall opposite the couple.

The woman squirmed in her lover’s arms, her high heels catching on his tuxedo jacket. Her fingers flew to his neck, undoing his bow tie and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

She unbuttoned his shirt, and her mouth moved to his chest, as murmurs of pleasure escaped his lips.

The Prince felt more than desire as he watched the woman’s eager movements. He caught a glimpse of her exquisite mouth and the toss of her long hair that would no doubt feel like silk between his fingers.

She lifted her head to smile at the man who held her close and he could see love in her eyes.

It had been many, many years since someone smiled at him like that. As if he, himself, were the prize.

The Prince felt the sharpness of loss in that instance and the heaviness of an emerging envy.

The second floor was not air-conditioned and was warm, very warm. The air clung, growing thick with the scent of the lovers—a mixture of blood and sex that teased the Prince’s nostrils.

The professor’s hand disappeared between his wife’s legs and he began to touch her, whispering sensual words of appreciation.

The Prince craned his neck for a better view but of course his line of sight was obscured by the professor’s body.

He cursed, remembering once again how the professor seemed to stand between him and what he wanted.

He followed the movement of the man’s arm, watching as the rhythm was matched by the shifting of the woman’s hips and the sounds emanating from her throat. Breathy groans and panting tempted him to push the professor aside and take her himself.

He indulged himself in a momentary fantasy. The young woman warm and willing in his arms, her eager mouth pressed to his as he entered her. He’d be careful, of course, because humans were breakable.

But she would be warm and pliable, and when she cried out in his arms he’d bend his lips to her neck and . . .

“Don’t make me wait,” the woman spoke, her tone urgent.

The Prince awoke from his reverie to see her hands covering her lover’s backside as she tried to urge him closer.

Low murmurings were exchanged and gentle laughter as the professor reached into his pocket and withdrew a foil packet.

The joy between the couple surprised the voyeur, as if it were out of place. He was used to hard, angry coupling, absent joy, absent affection.

He fornicated as he fed—with a goal to pleasure and satisfaction, to filling a void and sating a hunger.

What he was witnessing was something else entirely.

The sound of trousers being unzipped echoed in the corridor. The woman exhaled in satisfaction as her lover pushed inside her.

The pair moved in concert, hands tugging and pulling, grunts of delight filling the air.

The woman’s back thudded against the windowpanes as her lover thrust more forcefully.

Her eyes were open, heated, until they fluttered closed and her ruby lips parted.

“I’m close,” she moaned, a series of inchoate sounds escaping her mouth as she climaxed.

The man said her name as he quickened his movements, his hips rolling and pushing. Then he, too, was overcome.

The scent of sex filled the air as the lovers clung to each other.

The Prince gritted his teeth, his arousal both painful and obvious beneath his black trousers.

He steeled himself against the sensation, shamelessly staring at the couple as they gently caressed each other. He could hear their lungs expand and contract and their heart rates begin to slow.

The professor lifted a hand to his wife’s face, caressing her cheekbone. She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to the edge of his palm.

The Prince averted his eyes, as if he’d trespassed on an intimacy.

“Can you walk?” The professor placed his wife on her feet and bent to straighten her dress.

She laughed, the sound light and happy. “I think so. I might be a little wobbly.”

“Then allow me.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her down the corridor.

The Prince followed discreetly, peering around the corner as they disappeared into a bathroom.

He refused to entertain any of the conflicting thoughts he was having after having witnessed the passionate but tender scene. Instead, he adjusted his trousers, willing himself to calm down.

His thoughts wandered to the photograph that was hanging in the Botticelli room, but only for a moment.

His idea of justice and his plans for achieving it easily blotted out the possibility of sentiment.

He focused his attention on his people, his principality, and the lengths he would go to maintain his control of them. Then he waited for his prey to emerge from their hiding place.

Chapter 3

“Massimo, there you are. What’s the name of the young man we were speaking to earlier?”

“Who?” Dottor Vitali gazed up at his American friend, confused.

The professor scanned the guests as they assembled in one of the large lecture rooms downstairs, waiting to be seated for dinner.

“There.” Gabriel pointed to a man dressed in a black suit who was staring in their direction. The man who, unbeknownst to him, had followed him and his wife upstairs.

As if he’d heard the professor’s words from across the room, the figure turned abruptly in his direction and gave him a menacing look.

Vitali watched the wordless exchange between the man in the black suit and the professor and nodded.

“Ah, the Englishman. He made a substantial donation to the gallery when he learned of your benevolence and requested an invitation to tonight’s events. Apparently, he’s a patron of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi and funded its restoration.”

“His name?” Gabriel pressed.

Vitali stared into space absently.

“Massimo?” Gabriel snapped his fingers.

Vitali startled, his eyes moving to the professor’s. “What was I saying?”

Gabriel resisted the urge to huff in frustration. “You were going to tell me the name of the young Englishman who made a donation to the gallery.”

“Of course.” Vitali smiled. “I don’t remember his name but we will ask my assistant. He has the guest list.”

Gabriel pressed his lips together. “So you don’t know the man personally?”