Faking It (24 page)

I recognize Luc’s sultry cologne and my breath catches in my throat.

“There you are,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “Where are you going?”

I turn in his arms and look up at him. The moonlight is shining on his hair, making it shimmer blue-black, casting shadows across his angular face. He’s even more handsome in moonlight than he is in daylight.

“I’m taking a walk.”

“Where to?”

“The vineyards.” I try to pull away.

“By yourself?” He tightens his hold around my waist, leaving no space between our bodies. The bulge in his pants presses into me. “Wouldn’t you rather have company?”

When I don’t answer, a frown wrinkles his brow. “What is it, Vivia?”

“What is what?” Cool, Vivia. Play it cool.

“You’re acting strangely.”

“I’m just tired.”

His black eyebrow rises. “I saw you talking to Chantal. Did she say something to upset you?”

I shrug because hot, salty tears are clogging my throat.

He squeezes me. “What did she say?”

“Nothing really.” I’m sniffling like a big baby. “She just reminded me that I’m coming off a bad breakup and am too messed up to get involved with someone new. You deserve better than some girl with issues.”

He keeps his arms around my waist, but slides his hand up my spine. I couldn’t move away from him if I wanted to—and I don’t.

“Why don’t you let me decide what I deserve?” He presses his lips against the curve of my neck just below my ear. “Stop overthinking it,
mon amour
. Just let it happen.”

“What happen?”

He grabs my earlobe between his teeth and nibbles it. “Whatever is meant to happen.”

The bulge in his pants has grown larger, harder. My reserves are crumbling. I want to be with Luc even if it’s only for the duration of this trip. I want him to throw me down on the ground, hike up my dress, rip off my panties, and bury that bulge inside me. I want him to fuck me senseless, until I’m too exhausted to think, and think, and overthink.

“We live in different countries,” I gasp, pushing my hips against him, rubbing myself against his erection. “What can come of this?”

He moans. “Nothing if you end it before it’s had a chance to begin.”

A burst of laughter erupts from the terrace and floats to us on the breeze. Luc lets me go and steps back. We stand in the moonlight, staring at each other. I read the invitation in his gaze. Stark and seductive.

Without speaking another word, Luc smiles, turns away, and follows the trail into the vineyards.

I catch up with Luc, and we walk hand in hand between rows of vines burgeoning with fat purplish-green grapes. Normally, I would be chattering nervously to ease the tension, but small talk has never seemed more banal than at this moment. “When did you learn to sail?” just won’t do when what I really want to say is, “When will you let me bite the buttons off that shirt and lick you from pecs to abs?”

There’s something totally hot about being with a man and knowing precisely how the evening is going to end. Sure, I still have the what-if, will-it, won’t-it butterflies, but deep down, on some primal level, I know what’s going to happen. Maybe we’ll spread my pashmina on the ground and slow grind under the vines. Or maybe we’ll go back to his room and spend the night getting to know every inch of each other’s bodies. But we’re going to do it.

We walk down the hill until the cluster of hotel buildings become a distant amber glow among the stars. My panties are growing moister, my thighs sliding together with each step. The anticipation is excruciating.

I am about to ask Luc if he plans on hiking me to Rome when we come to the end of a row of vines. He makes a sharp right, and we are standing in front of a tumbledown stone shack the harvesters probably use for their breaks. A long wooden table flanked by benches sits to the side of the shack. Luc leads me to the table, lifts me onto the surface, and hikes my dress up to my waist, leaving my legs and a hint of my lacy thong exposed.

He runs his hands up my calves, over my knees and thighs, until he reaches my hips. The throb of lust that’s been pulsing, pulsing, pulsing between my legs increases. He slides two fingers beneath my thong, gives it a quick, violent tug, and the slender triangle of lace falls off my body. I sit on the table, legs spread, waiting for him as he fumbles with the fly of his trousers. When I hear his zipper slide open, my body instinctually prepares for the moment when he will bury himself inside me. The pulsating increases, my thighs grow moist. I hold my breath and wait.

And then Luc is sliding his hands back up my thighs, grabbing my waist, pulling me forward, easing me onto his cock. I wrap my legs around his lean waist and let him take control. He cups my bum and moves me up and down in a frenetic, mind-blowing rhythm. His fingers dig into my ass cheeks, he sticks his tongue in my mouth, and I lose it. I lose my f-ing mind.

Coherent thought evaporates, leaving a residue of feverish lust. I’m delirious with desire. My nerves are crackling, itching. I can’t keep still. My body wants to gyrate, touch, kiss, bite.

I spread my legs, wiggle my hips, make more room for Luc to push deeper. He responds to my body language as if he has already memorized the script, turning us around, lowering me onto the table, and climbing on top of me to push harder, deeper. In. Out. In. Out.

I can feel his slight beard against my cheek, smell the mélange of cologne, perspiration, and desire emanating from his skin.

A low primal moan rolls around in the back of my throat. It’s deep and guttural. Uncontrollable and intuitive.

When Luc wraps an arm around my neck, thrusts a final time, and shudders with orgasmic pleasure, I can contain it no longer. My lips part, and I moan so loud it echoes through the vineyard.

Luc doesn’t move right away. His sweaty, heated body covers mine, pressing me against the rough hewn table. I listen to his ragged breathing, open my eyes, and stare at the vast Tuscan sky streaked with the remains of the day, glowing with starlight.

Hot, silent tears spill out of my eyes and slide into my hair.

“What’s wrong,
mon amour
?” Luc lifts up on his forearms. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I shake my head.

“What is it?”

How do I even begin to explain what I am feeling?

“I’m just so happy.”

“
Bon
,” he laughs, collapsing on top of me again. “I’m not sure my ego would survive the shock of learning that our lovemaking left you grief-stricken.”

I want to tell him the thought of returning to San Francisco without him by my side is filling me with grief, but I don’t want to freak him out. Instead I curse Fate and her wicked ways. Why would the cruel bitch bring me a man as wonderful, as unattainable, as Luc?

And as long as I’m pondering the mysteries of the universe, why does my heart hope for a future with Luc when my head knows this is nothing more than a hot vacation hookup?

* * * *

The sun is peeking over the horizon, winking tangerine rays, when Luc and I begin the walk back to our rooms.

He escorts me to my cottage, lifts my hair off my shoulder, and drops a kiss on the curve of my neck. It’s a tender, intimate gesture that makes me happier than I’ve been in…ever.

As he walks away, I play a medley of sappy old-school power ballads in my head, like “I Remember You
”
by Skid Row and Journey’s “Faithfully
,”
and that’s when I realize I’m in deep.

* * * *

Fanny bolts upright in bed as soon as the door clicks shut.

“So?” She turns on the light. “How was it?”

“
Bonjour
to you, Fanny.” I kick off my Converses and flop on the bed beside her. “Aren’t you even going to ask where I’ve been all night?”

“I know where you’ve been, with Luc. I got worried when I came back to the room and you weren’t here, so I went straight to Luc’s room, but he wasn’t there either. It hardly takes Sherlock to deduce where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s elementary, my dear Dr. Watson. You’ve been embarking on A Scandal in Tuscany, conducting A Study in Sex, doing it doggy-style with your Hound of—”

“Enough, Fanny!” I toss a pillow on her face to stop her from perverting any more of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s titles. “I spent the night with Luc. Are you happy?”

She removes the pillow from her face, puts it behind her head, and looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Are
you
?”

“I think so.”

“You think so? What kind of answer is that? You just spent the night with a gorgeous Frenchman, and you only
think
you’re happy?” She narrows her gaze. “What is it, Vivian?”

“I don’t know.” I rub the grit and old mascara from my eyes. “I might have spent the night having crazy-hot monkey sex with a virtual stranger, but that doesn’t mean I’ve shrugged off the burden of expectation placed on my shoulders by my saintly namesake.”

“No,” Fanny groans. “Not the Saint Vivia crap again!”

“Being named after a martyr can really mess with your mind, you know?”

“I was named after a soap opera character, but you don’t see me killing my twin and taking over her life just so I can have sex with her husband, do you?”

“No.”

“Okay then, why do you think you need to be virginal, just because you were named after some random martyr?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Before she was canonized, Saint Vivia Perpetua lived a normal mortal life. She probably broke a few commandments.”

“Sure.” I close my eyes and see Luc’s naked body bathed in moonlight. “Maybe she coveted her neighbor’s leather sandals or sassed her mother when asked to fetch water from the well, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t have crazy-hot monkey sex.”

Fanny laughs. “Seriously, Vivia. You haven’t been to church in years. So what’s this about?”

She’s right. I haven’t been to church since I left home for college, but when I imagine confessing my wild night to Father Escobar, I’m filled with shame.

“I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s not like achieving sainthood has ever been on any of my to-do lists.”

If I am perfectly honest, the prospect of facing Father Escobar in the confessional isn’t as upsetting as the thought of losing Luc’s esteem. I should feel liberated, but I don’t. I am terrified, like I am walking a tightrope without a safety net.

Luc knows the truth about my sexual history. Even if he didn’t, I’m thinking letting him take me from behind on a picnic table would have tipped him off that I’m not exactly a sexual novice.

“Remember what Oscar Wilde said, ‘No woman should ever be quite accurate about her sexual history.’”

I laugh.

“That’s not what he said, Fanny. He said, ‘No woman should ever be quite accurate about her
age
.’”

“Whatever,” she says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “The point is, we all tell little white lies about ourselves. We fudge our ages, weight, number of sexual partners. Who cares, really? Just be yourself.”

She’s right. If I’ve learned anything on this trip, it’s that I need to stop pretending to be someone I’m not.

“What did you tell me Jett Jericho said to you?”

“That I should keep it real and do me.”

“Keep it real, Vivian.” Fanny giggles. “Do you, and I’ll bet Luc will keep doing you, too.”

“Ha ha!”

Fanny rolls out of bed. “Now come on, we’re supposed to meet the group in an hour and you look like you could do with a shower and a hot cup of coffee.”

I can’t stop myself from groaning. “Oh God, not another bike ride? I can’t.”

Fanny laughs. “No bike ride.”

“Thank God.”

“We’re riding horses instead.”

I sit up. “What?”

“Oh, that’s right.” Fanny grins. “You left before Chantal had a chance to go over our Tuscany itinerary. We’re spending our first day in Tuscany riding horses.”

I groan and drop my chin to my chest.

“How bad can it be? A day spent riding through the vineyards while watching Luc cowboy up. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

I lift my head and grin.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Fanny grins, too. “Right?”

After I’ve taken a hot shower, dried off, and dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, tank top, and my Chuck Taylors, I attempt to conduct some serious damage control with my tinted moisturizer, illuminator, and blush. Engaging in an all-nighter of crazy-hot monkey sex wreaks havoc on your complexion. I’m able to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, but not the slight beard burns on my neck and chest from Luc’s vigorous kisses. I can only smile as I remember the delicious sensation of his stubble grazing my skin.

While I wait for Fanny to finish getting ready, I check my phone for new messages: Two from Mum, several from assorted curious acquaintances, fifteen from
E! News
, and one from Travis. Next, I sign in to post an update on Twitter. 523 new followers.

Tweet from Vivia Grant @PerpetuallyViv

Getting ready to mount a handsome Italian stallion. #Horsebackriding #TuscanAdventure #HoneymooningSolo

Rode Hard and Put Up Wet

“You like a hard ride?”

In my defense, when I composed that tweet about mounting an Italian stallion, I had no idea I was about to meet Simone, a super sexy Tuscan cowboy. Now, I realize my tongue-in-cheek tweet was indeed a double entendre.

Simone is a horse guide, and he’s leading our group on the day’s equestrian adventure. He’s also flirting with me shamelessly.

“Excuse me?”

Simone smiles innocently, and I realize he has no idea his simple question carries an alternate meaning.

“You like the hard ride, no? You want we go faster?”

I feel Luc’s gaze boring into my back. When we started the ride, he was bringing up the rear, but the more Simone flirts, the closer Luc rides.

“No,” I say, gently nudging my horse away from Simone and closer to Fanny, who’s riding on the other side of me. “We don’t need to go faster.”

“You like it slow, then?”

Fanny laughs out loud.

“It doesn’t matter to me.” I fix my gaze on the trail ahead. “I like it either way.”