Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey (7 page)

"That was the first thing I learned. And 'thank you' is 'per favore'." I showed him my phone, and the app I'd been using to translate. "I've learned a few phrases with this."

Luca laughed again, waving his hand in dismissal. "Bah. Technology is a wonderful thing, but I think perhaps nothing is so good as a person to teach you a language. There are many small things to speaking truly that no program or app can ever teach." He stood up and extended his hand. "I think maybe after so much running you are hungry, yes? Eat with me, Delilah."

There was no hesitation. I took his hand and let him draw me to my feet. "I would like that."

We walked through the streets of Rome, or Roma, I should say, him guiding me with subtle nudges. He worked for a vineyard, selling cases of wine to restaurants and bars throughout Italy and some of the surrounding countries. He was the youngest of four children, all of whom except him lived and worked in Firenze, a stone's throw from their parents. Luca traveled much of the time, but still spent a few weeks at a time with his family, "on holiday" he called it.

We sat across from each other in a little cafe, from which I could see the huge gray bulk of the Coliseum.

"I am returning to Firenze tomorrow, actually. I have been in Roma for a week, working, and for three months before that traveling in the north. I am ready to go home and eat my mother's cooking." He grinned. "I am what you Americans call 'a mama's boy'. I am not ashamed of this. My mother makes the best food in all of Italy, I think."

"I think it's sweet that you're close to your mother," I said, sipping the wine he'd ordered, something dry and unpronounceable and delicious.

"Europeans are often much closer to our families, I think. I have traveled in America a few times, and I think this is true."

"I think you're right," I said. "We move away when we're old enough, and it gets hard to travel back home. It's at least partially because America is just so big."

"It is also a matter of culture, and the raising of children, too," Luca said. "Not to mean that Americans do not love family, but for us it is different, I believe."

I let Luca order for me, and we ate slowly, enjoying each bite, trading stories of childhood. I'd managed to avoid any discussion of my reason for coming to Italy thus far, and I was proud of it. Don't talk drama, George had told me.

"So, why have you come to Italy? Just for vacation?" Luca had a sly look on his face, as if he knew differently. "I think it is more. You are alone here, yes? No friends, no husband, no travel group?"

I hesitated, wondering what to say. Eventually I decided on some of the truth. "Yes, I'm alone. I just had to get away from everything for awhile, and the thought of going with a bunch of random strangers, just seeing a few tourist-y spots and moving on...no thanks."

"What is it you are getting away from?"

I shrugged, trying for casualness I didn't feel; it was still a store spot. "Just...you know. Life, drama. The usual."

Luca waved his fork. "Ah. Drama, this I know. Perhaps you do not wish to discuss it, I think. You are on holiday to forget, no?" Our waiter brought dessert, spumoni for each of us. "Ah, now this looks delicious. You have had spumoni before?"

And with that he was off again, the topic mercifully changed to our favorite desserts.

When we finished, Luca paid, refusing to let me contribute, and we walked again, strolling aimlessly. Night fell gradually, time slipping away beneath our feet. We rested now and then, sitting on benches, our conversation endless and naturally flowing from topic to topic. Luca was careful to keep our conversation away from anything serious. Eventually we ended up on a high hill overlooking the city, leaning back against an ancient stone wall. We were sitting close enough that our shoulders and thighs touched, and with every brush of clothed flesh I felt a current of electricity buzz through me. I wished, like a school girl, that I was brave enough to kiss him, or even hold his hand.

"I leave for home tomorrow," Luca said, apropos of nothing. "I was thinking...perhaps you might like to travel with me? It would be a free ride to Firenze, after all, and if you did not mind my boring company on the way..."

My heart leapt into my throat. "I...you aren't boring, Luca. Just the opposite." I was thinking, frantic as a lovesick teenager,
he likes me, he likes me, he likes me!
"I would love to, thank you."

We wended our lazy way back to my hotel, and Luca stood with me outside my door. My heart was hammering in my chest, although I wasn't sure why.

I'm going to kiss him, I realized. My nerves knew before I did.

My back was to my door, Luca standing in front of me, one hand planted next to my head. We weren't speaking, for the first time in hours, just staring at each other. I was waiting for him to kiss me, wondering if he would, wondering if I should make the first move or if that would be offensive.

"I would like to kiss you, Delilah," Luca whispered, interrupting my thoughts. His voice was a breath on the breeze.

I tilted my head up, lips parted, and then my hand was in the feather-soft black locks by his neck and our lips were touching, barely grazing at first and then with more urgency.

He tasted so good, like wine and heat. His feet moved to bracket mine, and his hands were on my waist, and then one moved up to brush my cheek and slip past my ear into my hair. His hard body pushed up against mine, and I could feel the faint thump of his heart in his chest, a little fast, as if he was nervous too. Surely he could feel mine, hammering in my chest? I was terrified. I wanted this to continue, I wanted the kiss to last forever and never change, but I wanted more, and he was so hot, so sexy, and he was kissing me,
me
, Delilah Flores.

His hand moved around my waist to my back and slipped down, stopping mere centimeters from caressing my backside, and I really,
really
wouldn't have minded if he kept going.

"Perhaps we could move to the other side of the door?" Luca suggested, a smile in his voice.

I nodded, unthinking, letting my instincts move me rather than my fears or inhibitions. I fumbled in my bag for the key, found it, managed to turn away from his molten, desire-sparking eyes long enough to unlock the door and get inside.

Something exploded in my belly then, burst apart my fears. Luca closed the door and turned back to face me. I might have attacked him, just a little. A wave of pure lust ran through me, demolishing everything but desire. He was here, in my hotel room, larger than life, hair tangled across one eye, jeans low on his hips and tight around his firm ass. I wanted to touch him all over, feel him pressed against me, let him take control and float along for the ride.

He caught me, let me crash into him and crushed his lips to mine, and now—oh god—his hand slipped down my spine to cup my bottom and pull my hips against his.

Damp heat blossomed between my thighs, and I sighed into his lips.

"I like this," I said. I hadn't meant to speak, but the words dripped out of my mouth unbidden.

Luca laughed, a huff of breath against my lips, a smile curving his luscious mouth. "That is good. I like it as well." He moved his other hand to my backside, curling his fingers into the muscles beneath the fabric of my knee-length skirt. "Do you like this, as well?"

I nodded, and let my hands find their slow but eager way to his chest, feeling the bunched muscles. It wasn't enough, though. My hands wanted more. They wanted to feel hot skin. They snaked underneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt and skimmed his stomach, lightly brushing the dusting of hair to rest on his chest again.

He smirked, and then mirrored my action, slipping under my shirt and running up the skin of my back, coming to rest just beneath my bra strap. I gasped at the contact of skin to skin, pressed up against him and curved my hands around to touch his back. He just lifted an eyebrow, and kept still. Was he playing a game?

I lowered my hands down the ridges of his spine and the hard creases of muscle along his back. Now I was touching him just above the waistband of his jeans.

Dare I?

Oh yes, I dared.

I moved my hands under the jeans and his underwear to clutch the cool hardness of his backside. God, it was like rock. My heart was tympani beneath my ribcage, thundering wildly. Would he reciprocate? Would I die when he did?

His thumbs brushed the outside of my thighs, hooked under the hem of my skirt and lifted, pressed his palms to my lace-clad backside. His eyes were locked on mine, waiting for me to tell him no, but I kept silent, willing my heart to slow. It didn't, and when I didn't demure, but kept my eyes bold on his, he slid his hands under the lace to my bare skin.

I trembled, sucked in a deep breath at the buzzing thrill of strong, desirous male hands on me.

"You are okay, Delilah? I do not wish to press you, if you are not wanting this as I am." I could only nod, and he tilted his head. "You are nervous, then."

I nodded again, but knew I had to say something, this time. "Yeah, I'm nervous. It's...it's been a while. But I don't want to stop."

"You will tell me if I move too fast, okay?" he said.

My panties were pink lace, lingerie I'd indulged in for fun before I left Chicago, and was wearing them because they made me feel sexy and daring. Would he see them? The thought of standing in my bra and panties in front of a man was scary. I'd never done it before. That's not how things were with Harry. We had sex in bed, with the lights out. I'd never stood before a man in any state of undress, not intentionally. Oh, sure, Harry saw me naked all the time, just out of the shower, or changing, but...

God, as I write this I realize the hard truth: Harry didn't want me. He didn't desire me. I was safe, for him. I was security. I had a career path and I took care of him. But sexually, I was just there. Available, but not his preference.

Luca...he
wanted
me. It was in his eyes, in the roving possession of his hand, the bump of his hips against mine. His desire was infectious, and intoxicating.

I'd never been desired before.

I needed to show Luca that I wanted him too. I brushed my hands up his torso, along his sides, and lifted his shirt off. Holy hell. His body was chiseled from flesh-covered granite. My lips, of their own free will, touched his shoulder, an inch away from his neck, and then closed in to where his throat met his clavicle, and then to his adam's apple.

I'd never kissed a man, thus, with such tender passion. I didn't love Luca, but I
wanted
him, in a way I'd never wanted anyone.

Luca kissed my temple, feathered his fingers through my hair as I paid oral homage to the temple of his body, then skimmed his hands up my back and lifted my shirt free, and my thudding heart went mad.

"Your heart, it is beating so hard," Luca laughed. He tipped my chin up to look at him. "You are not only nervous, I think. You are afraid. Am I scaring you, Delilah?"

I shook my head, then nodded, and then laughed at my indecision, sniffling. I wasn't crying. I
wasn't
.

Shit. Yes I was.

(Cursing comes easier with every passing day; in writing, it is even easier. No one will ever read this diary.)

"Delilah? Mio Dios, you are crying. It was too much, I knew it." He sat me down on my bed, pulled me against his chest.

I was in my skirt and bra, but he hadn't so much as peeked at me, yet. This just made me cry harder.

"I'm sorry, Luca," I whispered, choking back the crazy, unwelcome, confused tears. "It's not you. I don't know what it is. I was enjoying it, really I was. I don't want to stop. I don't know why I am crying."

"Tell me, mia bella. What is it you are trying to forget?"

I shook my head. "No. No drama." I wiped my eyes, took shallow shuddering breaths.

And then Luca, sweet, sexy Luca, he kissed my hair line, and then my temple, and then my cheekbone, and then my jaw, and it was as if I'd always known him, always felt his kisses on my face. So familiar, so foreign; so electric, so comforting.

It only made another tear track down my face, and then I was talking. Again. Telling my stupid story, again. I had it down to a quick run-through at this point, an almost memorized patter of the facts: small town girl married her high school sweetheart, found him cheating on her and left him.

"But then why are you so afraid of this?" Luca asked. "You are not a virgin, it is not your first time, nor mine. I am not hurting you, am I? Not giving you pressure to do this?"

"No! Like I said, it's not you, not in any way. It's just...Harry, my ex-husband, was the only one I've ever been with. And with him, it was always in bed, in the dark. Once we were married—and we waited until we were married for our first time, or I did, at least—there wasn't much romance to it. We barely kissed. He didn't touch me like you are. He just...did what he did, finished, and went to sleep." I couldn't look at Luca as I said this. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know anything, except that...I want you. I want this. You...you look at me, touch me like you actually want me, and it—it's so wonderful. But yeah, I'm scared. It's new, and I feel vulnerable. What if I'm bad at it? What if you don't like...it...with me? It's like I
am
a virgin, in a way. In terms of experience, I mean. I've never done anything. I just let Harry do what he wanted, and that was it."

Luca's eyes were burning, with anger, but not at me, I didn't think. "Oh, Delilah. You poor girl. You have been so ill treated. That is not love, that is not even really sex. This Harry was only a selfish pig of a man who did not deserve you. You need to be taught what true pleasure is, I think." He tipped my chin up and kissed me, ever so gently. "If you are sure you want this, with me, tonight, I will be as slow an educator in the arts of love as you could wish. If not, there is always another night, and do not think I will be upset, please."

Yes, Luca really said that. He wanted to educate me in
the arts of love
? Oh Venus, still my beating heart.

"Answer me, mia bella Delilah." His command was gentle but insistent, his finger on my chin keeping me from looking away. "I want to hear your answer."