Her Roman Holiday (14 page)

He began by flirting with the spaghetti straps of her dress.
 
Concentrating on first one and then the other, he used a combination of teeth and tongue to slip them off her shoulders, before turning his attention to the completely bared flesh of her neck and chest.
 
He leaned into her collarbone, mixing the scrape of teeth with the softness of lips and the darting moisture of tongue to ignite a slow burning flame inside her.
 
She moaned, leaning her back against the firm curve of his arms.
 
Her nipples firmed, pressing against him through the fabric of their clothing, even as he shifted his ministrations to her neck and the smooth tautness of her jawline.

Her hands reached for his chest, finding the buttons on his shirt and undoing them, before sneaking under the fabric, to the smooth, muscled skin of his chest, even as he used one hand to release her breasts from the bodice of her dress.
 
Then, he pressed her against him once more, but lower, his hips to her waist.
 
She could feel the firm grind of his erection against her belly, triggering a thrill of giddy pleasure that coursed through her limbs and left her ready for more.

She groaned as he held her, his free hand playing with her breasts, teasing them into hard buds of concentrated sensation.
 
Dimly, she noted that he had urged her arms free of the straps, but, as he continued to toy with her body, touching her in just the right places, as if he knew, instinctively what would please her, the ability to think in words was obliterated.
 

Her mind was swamped by sensations of him and of all he did to pleasure her.
 
Somehow, they moved to the bed.
 
Somehow, he played her harder, pushing her to an edge where she forgot about languor, forgot about patience.
 
Forgot about anything except the need to be satiated.

And somehow, he pulled back just before the moment of climax.
 
But even as she released a cry of frustration, he had shifted his attentions, beginning the slow escalation of sensations again, until she forgot that she had been thwarted, because he had guided her into a whole new labyrinth of rising excitement.

And again, he pulled back at the last possible moment.
 
This time, she screamed with the sudden disappointment, but again, he was able to urge her back from the edge, and pull her into a new maze of swirling, gasping, throbbing anticipation
—
a tension that peaked all the more intensely, for having been thwarted twice already.
 

She was no longer anything outside of sensation and rapidly heightening excitement.
 
She had become the surging movement of pleasure that he orchestrated with deft finesse, closer and ever closer to the event horizon.

He didn’t pull back.
 
The world exploded into screeching, shattered fragments of exquisite, throbbing pleasure that bore what little remained of her self in its shuddering, overwhelming tide.
 

Hours or seconds later, as she began to regain awareness of herself, she found she was still shaking and weak with the power of her release.
 
And somehow in those moments of deafened aftermath, the world had put itself back together, though she couldn’t be certain of how that had happened.
 
All she knew was that she had been returned to her body, to her mind, but that she felt constricted by it, for she was no longer the monumental potency of that transcendent, exquisite force of pleasure.

His hand still cupped one breast, and he was no longer inside her, had collapsed beside her instead, his limbs splayed with exhausted abandon.
 
As if he had found a release as obliterating as that which he had given her.
 
She was astonished to note the marks of her passionate responses imprinted on his flesh
—
places where she had bitten, sucked or scratched him in the oblivion of her excitement.
 

And suddenly, she knew that he had just as much power over her as she had feared.
 
If she had known this could happen so quickly, she would never have allowed herself to succumb to him again
—
would have left the villa, if necessary, and taken a room in a hostel.
 
But now, it was too late.
 
He had taken her to the place of annihilation
—
a place whose existence she had never even suspected before this.
 
How naïve of her to imagine that all orgasms were created equal.

Her handful of previous lovers had never been capable of this.
 
Had never exercised such control over the tide of her passions, causing them to ebb and flow with the touch of a hand, the stroke of tongue against flesh.
 
Already, and in spite of her trembling exhaustion, she felt the faintest stirrings of a fresh hunger for him.
 
Just watching him, feeling his heavy hand against her breast, reminded her of what they had just shared, made her eager for more.

And, looking at Gio, Calia knew she was in very real danger of falling deeply into the thrall of someone who could do this to her.
 
If she wasn’t careful she really would become one of ‘his women’, regardless of how much her mind disdained the notion.
 
Nor was she certain it wasn’t already too late.

So, after ascertaining the depth of his slumber, she eased out from under his arm and slipped off the bed, raising herself onto legs that still felt unsteady.
 
Careful not to make a sound, she moved about the room, collecting up her clothing and dressing with stealthy swiftness.

But, even as she stole from the room and closed the door gently behind her, she knew she was fooling herself.
 
This exit from his room was no longer an assertion of independence, but an act of desperation.

She emerged from her exhausted slumber feeling weighted and unrefreshed
—
though her body felt capable and alert enough, her thoughts remained troubled by what she had allowed to happen.

Still, she went through the motions of showering and getting dressed.
 
Then, she schooled herself into an outward façade of calm before leaving her room for breakfast.

Gio looked up from his newspaper as she entered.
 
“Slept well?”

Calia felt a surge of bitterness
—
he had upended her world.
 
She was still reeling from the shock.
 
And here he was, perfectly groomed, sipping his coffee and speaking as if this were just another day.
 

Two can play at that game.

She smiled.
 
“Of course.
 
After such a full day yesterday, it would have been a challenge not to.”

He set aside his paper.
 
“If you were so exhausted, then I am surprised you had the energy to return to your own room.”

Instead of responding, she poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the sideboard and sat down at the table.
 
All the while, she could feel him watching her.
 

After the silence stretched between them for several more moments, he sighed.
 
“You know you could have stayed in bed with me.
 
I would have liked to wake up with you at my side.
 
I would have made love to you again this morning.”

The thought of being wakened by Gio’s touch, by his kisses and his caresses, triggered an intense wave of desire.
 
Calia brushed it aside, angry at her own responsiveness to him.
 
She took a sip of coffee.

He leaned towards her, but she refused to look up at him.
 
“I dreamed of you, Calia,” he murmured, his voice pitched just loud enough for her to hear.
 
“And when I woke, I was ready for you.
 
Ready to pleasure you as you have never been pleasured before.”

Calia tried to hold her expression still and indifferent, but in spite of her efforts, the hand holding her coffee mug froze halfway to her mouth, and her eyes closed at the seductive insinuation of his voice, the images and sensations conjured by his words.
 
She set her cup on the wooden table with a thunk and looked over at him, forcing her mouth into a stiff smile.

“That might have been nice.”

“
Porca miseria
!”
 
He sat back in his chair, scowling at her.
 
But even in anger, he was dangerously sexy.
 
“Why do you always insist on resisting me like this?
 
What are you afraid of, that you must constantly be making only the barest minimum of concessions?”

She returned his glare, welcoming the opportunity to channel her swirling turmoil into a safe emotion:
 
anger.
 
“How can you even ask that?
 
It was no strings, remember?
 
We both agreed to the terms.
 
So why do you keep trying to create intimacies between us that aren’t there
—
and shouldn’t be?”

“Consenting to fall asleep in my bed after we have made love is not intimate, it is expedient.”

Why should such a statement make her feel dull and depleted?
 
She should be glad to discover he felt that way.
 
Instead, she felt her anger deflate like a flaccid inner tube.

She shook her head, holding onto the pretense with both hands.
 
Her glare did not waver.
 
“I happen to regard it as an intimacy, Gio.
 
So, if you want this involvement of ours to remain superficial, then I would suggest you just accept the fact that I will be returning to my own room afterwards.”

“So you make it a practice to only share a bed with your lovers while you are making love?”

The generalization brought back a tiny spark of her annoyance, and she leapt at it, casting him a defiant look.
 
“No
—
but then I’ve always been in a relationship with my previous lovers.
 
There was some involvement beyond the physical.”
 
She met his hardened gaze, as he watched her with eyes that had grown chillingly inscrutable.

When she continued, the pleading edge to her voice surprised even herself, “But we don’t want that, Gio.
 
Neither of us do.
 
In fact, I’d hardly even say that we’re lovers because that implies something beyond this explosive physical thing that we seem to ignite in each other.
 
We’re more like… passion partners.”

His brows drew together and expression darkened with fury.
 
“Passion partners?
 
Trust you North Americans to come up with such New Age nonsense.”

“And trust you Italians to try to gloss things over with romantic fabrications.
 
What we shared last night had nothing to do with love and everything to do with lust
—
and I dare you to convince me otherwise.”

He seemed primed to respond, when Larissa entered the room, carrying a tray laden with fresh buns and croissants, cheeses and fruits.
 
One glance at their stormy expressions had her tactfully retreating after setting the tray in the center of the table.

Once she had gone, Gio sat back, rubbing his temples.
 
“Why are we arguing about these… terms?
 
We are in agreement about the important things.
 
So call it what you will.”

Now that he had conceded her point, Calia felt little more than a bleak emptiness.
 
Why had she been insisting so vehemently that this was all about lust and had nothing to do with love
—
after all, shouldn’t that be self-evident?
 
Even as she formulated the question, she knew it would be best to avoid examining her answer too closely.
 

She let out a sigh and helped herself to a fresh roll.

“We can’t seem to have a conversation without arguing, can we?” she asked, suddenly wearied by it all.
 
“Maybe we should just stop this, Gio.
 
I mean, my bank card should be arriving sometime today.
 
Or tomorrow, at the latest
—
and at that point I can get out of your hair.”

“You will stay.”
 
The words were spoken without heat, as a simple fact of reality.
 
“We must see things out between us, Calia.
 
When you cease to become a living flame at my touch, when I can look at you without wanting to take you somewhere private and bury myself inside you
—
then you can leave.
 
I cannot imagine that it will be long
—
we will likely be freed of this compulsion even before your vacation here is done.
 
Give it a few more days.
 
This kind of insanity does not last.”

And again, the words, which should have consoled her, did nothing to improve Calia’s mood.
 
She felt as if a heavy stone had lodged itself between her lungs, constricting her breathing.
 
She nodded tiredly.
 
“So how long do these sorts of things usually last for you?”

He looked at her with surprise.
 
“’These sorts of things’?”
 
He shook his head.
 
“I have lusted after women before, yes.
 
I have taken mistresses
—
sometimes only for a few weeks and sometimes for longer.
 
But I have never experienced anything close to the intensity we have.
 
So I can only guess that we will glut ourselves and then we will finish with each other and be able to walk away without a second thought.”