Tuscan Heat (8 page)

“Those would be good reasons, if true. But I do not think they are true.”

“Explain, Sherlock.”

“The detective? I did not need to be so clever. You are watching your budget carefully. You purchased only one new dress over three days with no luggage. You did not even buy any underwear.” He stopped and leered at me.

“After I met you, they would have been more trouble than they were worth.”

“Nice one,
Americana.
”

“Grazie.”

He held up his hand and ticked each finger as he spoke. “So, you do not buy clothing in Firenze, a style capital of the world, but you are a stylish woman. You have a week to spend in Italy, but unlike the other Americans, you do not flit to Venice, and Pisa, and Rome with only a day in my city. You choose to walk instead of taking a taxi though you do not know where you are going.”

“Very observant.”

“There is more. You are so cautious, but yet your hotel is one of the nicest, and you have a double room, not a single.”

I didn’t like where he was going. “I like lots of room when I sleep.”

He leaned in. His lips brushed ever so gently against my ear. “You make love like a woman who has been denied too long.”

The tingle went all through my body. “Then don’t deny me.”

“You will not tell me?”

I sighed. “My boyfriend and I broke up before I left. He and I never should have…I thought I would bring him here and we might find something in common. The fact that he dumped me was bad for my ego, but at least he had the decency to do it before I spent my vacation money on his ass.”

“I am sorry.”

“But not all of your deductions are accurate.”

“Oh?”

“I’m staying here the whole week because it’s what I wanted most from Italy. When I was a little girl, my mother gave me a calendar with pictures of Florence and I’ve always thought it was too wonderful to be real. The Palazzo Vecchio seemed like a magic castle. The sky behind the dome always looked bluer than blue. I wanted to touch the cathedral, and walk over all the bridges, and stand where Michelangelo and Savonarola crossed paths. I wanted time to meet people who really lived here, not just other tourists. I thought, if I never got to come back to Italy, I would at least be able to say I came to the city of my dreams.”

He was still, like he hardly dared to breathe. “That is wonderful to hear.”

“Well, it’s true.”

We sat in our own silent world for a moment, even though the little room was now filled with other diners. He blinked like a man emerging into sunlight. “So, the boyfriend, you are not sad?”

I scrunched up next to him. “Do I act like I’m mourning?” Under the table, I put my hand high on his thigh. I wasn’t going to talk about the past when the present was so delicious.

“No, not exactly, but—”

“Shh.”

“Are you giving me orders again?”

I moved my hand higher. “Yes.”

“Very dangerous. No one in Firenze gives me orders.”

“You know what’s dangerous?”

“What is that?”

“Making me come in the Boboli Gardens. Anyone could have walked by.” I brushed my hand over his cock and felt him stir.

“We were more private there than we are here, Serafina.”

I snorted. “Sissy. The tablecloth goes to the floor, and you’re practically invisible in the corner. Unlike poor me in the garden.” I lowered my voice. “Your fingers pinching my poor nipple. Squeezing my breast. So rough, Marco.”

He was getting harder. “It was not really rough,” he said.

“I’ll bet you could be rougher. Would you like to be?”

“Yes. Later. Not here.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean now. I have other ideas for now.” I found the tongue of the zipper and pulled it down one tick at a time.

“The waiter will know what you are doing.”

He was now hard enough that getting his head through the fly of his briefs was easy. I tucked his napkin under him. “Then keep your hands on the table. Take a bite of food. Act normal. Oh, but above all, keep your face straight. Or someone might know.” On my last word I drew the edge of a fingernail down the length of his wonderful cock.

He tried to lift his fork, but his hand was shaking a bit too much to handle the green peas. “I will get you for this.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Get me back. You said you were going to put your fingers in me. Slide them into my body and feel how tight I am. You promised, Marco.”

“Mmm.”

I wrapped my hand around him and squeezed as I pulled up. I could feel my own reaction starting. My nipples were tight, and there was a lovely feeling between my legs. “I’m getting pretty hot now. Not as hot as I was in the garden with your hands all over my body. In front of everyone. People could see how much I wanted you.”

“I…was…shielding you…”

“Oh, be careful. Don’t breathe too heavily. It’s a dead giveaway.”

His reply was in mumbled Italian. I increased the rhythm. His skin was so smooth. I was aching for him, wanting to feel his body against mine. I didn’t dare move my body close enough to so much as switch hands though, or the entire restaurant really would know. I settled for putting my lips against his ear.

“I want you. I want to suck on you and get you even bigger and harder than you are now. Then I want you to take me slow and sweet, again and again and again—”

With my motions matching my words, he went over the edge. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were glassy, but he did pretty well considering how hard his cock was spurting against my hand. I held him tightly, enjoying every shudder.

“Ah, Marco! You have finished?”

Marco jerked his head up. “What?”

His friend the chef stood nearby, smiling. “You have finished the
cinghiale.
”

“Yes, it was delicious. Thank you. The seasoning was unexpected, but excellent as always.”

I still had my hand on his cock, but it didn’t take any sensitivity to feel my lover’s horror when his buddy dropped into the seat across from us. Fortunately, I could also feel the linen napkin still draped across Marco’s thighs. While Orsino expounded on his new recipe, I did a bit of wiping. Big as he was, stuffing Marco back into his pants was more problematic, and I must
have missed the fly. His kick wasn’t gentle. I decided he’d have to wrangle his personal bits himself.

“And what did you think of the
gnocci
,
signorina?
”

“Oh, Signore Orsino, it was the best I have ever tasted. I have to tell you, I’m glad Italian food isn’t this good where I live, or I’d be as round as the moon.” I picked up my purse from the seat next to me and fished out a bottle of hand sanitizer. I blatantly rubbed a dab over my fingers. Marco nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Orsino didn’t notice. He was off on a dissertation about how Americans ate fattening food that wasn’t tasty. He was making a point that one bite of his
gnocci
was worth an entire bag of Doritos when Marco finally got his pants zipped back up. I heard the tiny metallic snick, but Orsino, who was practically shouting in gourmet disgust, didn’t seem to notice. Marco and I made eye contact for about a millisecond, and this time I had to bite my own lip to keep from laughing. He squeezed my knee.

“All I can do is hope that the tourists leave here knowing that to eat should be a pleasure. An experience. Not a mindless grazing like a cow,” said Orsino. “Are you still hungry?”

“Very,” said Marco. Under the table, his hand slid from my knee to the top of my thigh. It was my turn to kick.

Orsino stood up and signaled a young waiter, who ran off. In a blink of an eye, the boy returned with two generous slices of what looked like a golden cream pie on a shortbread base. A tiny sifter of sugar sat on the tray, and the chef personally dusted our desserts.

“I hope to see you again,
signorina,
” said Orsino, though he was looking at Marco.

Marco smiled at me. “I hope to convince her to visit again when this too-short journey ends. Americans do not know how to take real holidays, eh,
mio fratello?
”

“No, they do not. Well, thank you both for gracing my poor shop with your bright lights.” With the grace that large men always seem to have, Orsino took his leave and vanished into his kitchen.

“Nice timing,” I murmured.

“Yours or mine?”

“Either.”

“Eat your
torta,
you terrible woman.”

I took a bite and moaned in ecstasy. The creamy cheese filling tasted like lemons, real lemons without any chemicals involved. The buttery crust was crispy, but it melted on my tongue. The crunchy pine nuts added a bit of texture to the whole thing.

“That’s it. I’m not going back to the States. I’m going to stay right here and eat this every day.”

“Convincing you to stay was easier than I thought it would be.”

I gave him a meaningful glare, but when I tried to say something, he popped a forkful of
torta
into my open mouth. He smiled at my sounds of delight.

He still took the hint, and instead of talking about us, he talked about Orsino’s grandmother. She sounded like the kind of old woman I had once hoped to be—fierce and fiercely loved, deeply rooted to a community. I hadn’t thought of that dream in years. Larry didn’t believe in putting down roots, not when career advancement might require relocation. It was wonderful to be sitting next to a man who thought seventy years in one location wasn’t long enough to matter.

Marco didn’t signal for the check until the last crumb was eaten and the last drop of wine was gone from our glasses. I noticed that he did not offer a credit card, just signed a piece of paper. At my raised eyebrow, he said, “I have an account here. I pay monthly.”

“Oh, sure, doesn’t everyone?”

He smiled, but he didn’t answer.

The steamy heat was gone when we emerged into the street, and surrounding us was balmy warmth that felt good after the slight chill of the cellar. I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm, and he put his hand on mine. He left it there until we got to a corner with a garbage can. Then he pulled away, fished something out of his pocket and shoved it down under a crumpled newspaper.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Looked like a piece of green cloth to me, Marco.”

He glanced at me. “Perhaps.”

“You stole a napkin from your friend’s restaurant.” Then it hit me. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. In Italy, we do not tip like you Americans do. The
coperto
is part of the bill. But I would have had to leave an American tip to make it up to the poor busboy who touched that napkin.”

We were still laughing when we got to my hotel.

“Well,” I said, once we were quiet. I couldn’t think of what to say.

“It has been a very long day, no?”

“Yes. I’m not worried. Tomorrow won’t be so crazy. I’m seeing the Uffizi, and you have a meeting?”

“Regretfully.”

I tried to sound casual. “Would you still like to…I mean, if you wanted…” I chickened out. Oral sex in public, fine, but asking him to my room seemed presumptuous. I needed to have my head examined, but now was not the time. “I guess you need to get home and get ready for that meeting.”

He sighed and squeezed my hand. “I should, but I do not want to. I would rather continue our evening. But as you say…” he trailed off.

I
was
disappointed. “I understand. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“Serafina.” He grabbed me around my waist and pulled me close. He buried his face in my hair. “Definitely tomorrow night,” he said, his voice rough.

I turned my head until my lips found his. I wanted to thank him for a wonderful day, from the science museum to the picnic to the grandmother’s cake. There weren’t any words good enough, but I hoped my tongue against his would be sufficiently eloquent. He groaned and shifted his body. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him.

He broke the kiss, though not the embrace.
“E io sì lo so che sei con me,”
he half sang, half whispered. He pressed his lips against my forehead. It felt like a magical incantation. I didn’t dare break the spell by asking what he said, though I knew it was from that song he kept singing.

I touched his cheek. “Good night, Marco.”

“
Buona notte,
Sara.”

He let me go, his fingers trailing down my arms. I went inside. When I turned around in the elevator, I could still see him standing in the street, a little smile on his face.

I was too keyed up to sleep. I wanted to pace, but even if I wasn’t tired, my ankle was. I still didn’t feel like getting ready for bed. The bed made me think of what I would rather be doing. Maybe I was also a little disappointed that after all the teasing, we hadn’t had the chance to go all the way. Well, it had been a really long day.

I tried to figure out the satellite television, and then I tried to read a magazine. But it was hopeless.

All I could think about was Marco. His sensitive mouth, his broad shoulders, the way he smelled. The way his hands felt against my body. I leaned back in the chair and let my own hands run over the bodice of my dress, thinking of how assertive and confident he was when he touched me.

My nipples were already hard from the thought of him. I closed my eyes, imagining his lips moving all over my body, his fingers exploring, rubbing, sliding…

Three sharp knocks on my door shattered my fantasy. “The hell,” I shouted. I stormed across the room and yanked the door open.

It was Marco. His hair was tousled and his eyes were wild.

“I cannot do it,” he said.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“You still do not just say hello?”

My breathing was getting back to normal. I leaned against the doorframe. “You didn’t either, pal.”

“Perhaps you are contagious.”

“Weren’t you going home to get ready for your meeting? Please, come in,” I said. My hand twitched. I grabbed a fistful of my skirt to keep from grabbing his arm and dragging him into the room.

He didn’t move. “I could not bear to say good night so soon, with thoughts of you running through my mind. Come with me.”

I grabbed my purse. “Where to?”

Marco laughed. He gave me a quick kiss. “I am so glad you are keeping your promise of yes.”

“So am I.”

“I will need that promise tonight. I will also need your large towels.” He paused. It was obvious he wanted me to argue, so I didn’t say a word. I just got them out of the bathroom cabinet.

I made him carry them through the lobby though. I didn’t want to get billed for stealing towels.

Part of me was hoping we’d revisit the
enoteca’s
rooftop lounge, but we only stopped there long enough to grab some bread, olive oil and wine. Giacomo raised an eyebrow at me, and I blew him a kiss. He burst out laughing and said something to Marco that brought a flush to my lover’s cheek.

Outside, I asked for a translation.

“He said you were worthy of me, more or less.”

“Hmph. But are you worthy of me?”

“Want to find out,
Americana?
”

“Well.” I pretended to think it over. “So far, so good. How much farther is it?”

He stopped in his tracks, his handsome face dark with concern. “Your ankle?”

“A little tender. I’ll be all right if we’re not walking to the Stibbert.”

“We are only going as far as that
palazzo
.”

“That’s a palace? Looks like a fortress to me.”

“It served as one, more than once. My city was constantly defending herself in her youth.”

“Defending? I may be vague on some of the details, but I’m pretty sure Florence did the invading most of the time.”

“Only to show our poor countrymen the light of Firenze. Hold the baggage, please.”

The building was a square, squat thing taking up half a city block, with no ground floor windows. Every ten feet there was a wrought iron torch sconce, as if electric light had yet to arrive. Marco fished out a giant monstrosity of a key and jiggled it in an ancient lock. The door was nine feet tall, banded with more iron, and when I rapped on it, my knuckles might as well have been made of cotton for all the sound I was able to make.

“They built them thick back then.”

There was a thunk as the tumblers fell into place, and Marco smiled. “They did. I build them just as well, when I am allowed.” He pushed the door open and pulled a remote from his pocket. There was a faint electronic chirp, and some lights came on. “Go ahead, Serafina.”

I stepped inside and froze. The outside expanse of featureless stone didn’t prepare me for the paradise before me.

We were in a landscaped courtyard, which was sort of like saying the Garden of Eden had a few trees. The centerpiece was a spectacular three-tiered fountain in a basin that must have been twenty feet long. The area around it was covered in lush, velvety grass framed with flagstone paths. Flowering vines grew around the edge of the space.

Three stories of balconies and archways rose over the water. Directly above us was the night sky. A church bell rang out a harmony to the music of the tumbling water.

Marco pushed the massive door closed and laid an iron bar in place. He pressed the remote again, and I felt a faint breeze.

“Airflow is an overlooked design element, I think,” he said, conversationally.

I remembered to close my mouth. “Where are we?”

“This is a renovation project I designed. The space has been converted into luxury apartments. I wanted to keep as much of the original character as possible, with features that make it more livable. This courtyard will be shared space for the tenants. The real entrance is on the other side, but I wished to show you what you would have seen if you had entered as a guest of the merchant prince who owned it so many years ago.”

“It’s incredible. I have never seen anything so amazing.” I hadn’t. At first glance, the building seemed to be all original materials, a vision straight out of the Renaissance. But the more I looked the more I saw modern improvements. Brass drains would keep the courtyard from being a sodden mess during storms. The passageways that I could see were much more airy and wider than authentic medieval construction. Recessed lighting cast a magical glow in all the right places.

He beamed at me when he saw what I was noticing. “I thought you would appreciate it.”

“I thought you said you did shopping malls.”

“That is the family business. It is never my choice. If I cannot restore, I wish to make new spaces with the character of Firenze.” I still held the towels and the food, and he took everything from my hands. He fished out the bottle opener and jabbed it into the cork.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He shook his head. “No, I am sorry. I should not be thinking of such things when I have a beautiful space and an even more beautiful companion.”

“Any chance of us having any other companions?”

“Not at all. The workmen are finished, and I am turning over the keys to the owners after I do an inspection.”

I kicked off my sandals and dipped a toe into the water. “Can I help you inspect anything?”

He spread out the towels and flopped on the grass. He grinned up at me. “Lie down and inspect the sky, Serafina. It is glorious.”

I didn’t need to be asked twice. I lay close to him, with my head pillowed on his arm. I could feel the heat of him down the entire length of my body.

The stars were marvelous, but even so, they were quickly forgotten. We talked about our jobs, and the kinds of work that we most enjoyed. It was a joy for me to talk about ways to convey mood with angles and lines and color. I barely had to finish my sentences before Marco would nod, and chime in with an observation that proved he wasn’t just listening, but understanding.

At some point, we sat up to eat and drink. I waved around a hunk of the bread. “It’s not only functionality that matters. The art of it lies in conveying character. Otherwise, a computer program may as well draw the stupid picture.”

Marco refilled my glass. “A man as well may live in a cave, for it will keep the rain out as well as my palazzo. You truly understand, Serafina. You are much joy to me.”

My free hand was on the ground, and he reached out and covered it with his own. For a moment, I couldn’t move. Then I curled my fingers around his in a tiny embrace.

There was nothing to say after that, so he kissed me. He tasted like the sweet olive oil and the dry wine, and I thrust my tongue into his mouth, suddenly hungry. My reaction encouraged him, and the kiss picked up speed until I was light-headed. He pulled away first, only to move his lips to my neck.

“My beautiful Serafina,” he mumbled. “I am so glad you were not asleep.”

“I was definitely not asleep. I was thinking of you.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Specifically, I was thinking of you touching me without half of the tourists in Florence walking by.”

“It is funny you should say that. I was thinking about you touching me with half of Florence less than ten feet away.”

“Oh, please.” I gasped when his mouth got to the top of my breast, curving so nicely over the neckline of my dress. “Mmm. Please. Yes.”

“It is my turn to give orders.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He pulled his shirt off and grinned at my little groan of delight. Then it was his turn to groan, since I couldn’t help running my fingers through his crisp hair and rubbing his chest muscles. “You used your turn at dinner.”

“How are you going to make me give in here?” I leaned down and kissed one of his nipples, and gently bit at the tip. It hardened, and I flicked it with my tongue.

He grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap. His cock was already hard against me, and I wriggled enough so he’d know I’d noticed. He put his hand on my breast and squeezed. “First I will distract you.”

“What good will thaaa…” I couldn’t talk. He put his mouth over the thin cloth and suckled. He moved his hand down to my pussy and pressed down. I arched into his touch. It had been a long day with a lot of teasing.

“It will do plenty of good. I will be able to unzip this lovely dress without you fighting me.”

“I wasn’t going to fight you!”

He just laughed. He got to his feet and pulled me to mine. I quivered with desire for him, but he was in no hurry. He walked around behind me and unzipped the dress. Then he tugged it off my shoulders, over my breasts and down my hips. I stepped out of it, and he laid it gently over a marble bench under one of the archways.

I stood there naked except for the delicate panty I’d worn in hopes of him seeing it. His eyes were half closed with desire, and yet they raked over every inch of me. In the wake of his gaze, my skin tingled. I held out my arms.

Marco shook his head. “Wait.”

“For?”

He knelt in front of me. He slid a gentle finger into my waistband, and tugged down my underwear. For a moment he left me hobbled, and combed my soft curls with a light, teasing touch. I held his shoulders, trying not to beg.

“I was going to make you keep your legs together,” he whispered, confirming my suspicions. “But I wish to see more.”

I nodded. I held on to his shoulders for balance and lifted one foot and then the other. He ran his hands up my inner thighs until his thumbs met at my pussy. He looked up. “You are wet, Serafina.”

“Yes.”

“I must taste you.”

I winced. “You shouldn’t. Long day. I got awfully excited at the restaurant.”

“This is not America, where women think they are not supposed to smell like women.”

“I can’t help being American.”

His eyes flicked to the side, and back at me with a mischievous expression in them.

“Then I will make you a tiny bit Italian.”

I wasn’t confused for long. He reached over and snagged the little jug of olive oil. He looked up at me and ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth.

“Are you really going to—?”

“Yes, I am.”

He poured a bit of the golden oil onto his fingers. Then he exposed my wet slit to the balmy night air. The breeze made me shiver, and his hot, slippery fingers made me cry out.

“Marco, oh, God. Yes.”

He didn’t answer. He covered every inch of my pussy, and wiped his hands on my bare ass. Then he bent forward. His tongue made slow laps from my opening to the top, up one side and down the other, and every other circle was punctuated by his nibbling lips over my clit. I rocked back and forth, holding on to him for dear life, whimpering his name.

He slid a finger into me, then another. “You are as hot and tight as I said you were,” he said, emphasizing each word with pressure from his pointed tongue. “Go ahead, come a little. Let me feel you shaking around me.”

I was close to the edge, but when he leaned in and flicked my clit hard and fast with his tongue, I went over. The heat inside my body burst out in waves. I had my hands on his head now, his thick hair a joy to my fingers, pushing him hard against me.

He didn’t stop me. But when I was mostly done, he looked up. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gave me a stern glare. “Serafina, you were very bad. It is my turn to give directions, and you were definitely steering.”

His tone was gruff. I darted a glance at him. His eyes twinkled and I decided,
what the hell.
I was on vacation.

“You’re right. I was bad. How am I going to show you how sorry I am?”

He pulled me down, a tiny bit hard. My heart, barely recovered from my orgasm, thumped a little harder. “I am going to have to be a little rough. Just so you know that when it is my turn, it is my turn.” He grabbed me and pulled me close, one hand on my breast squeezing tightly.

“Yes,” I hissed. “I want it rough from you.”

He gave me a gentle shove, one that got me on my back on the towel. “Good.”

He was on top of me then, his weight pinning me to the ground. The scent of my own sex was mixing with the taste of olives in his kiss. I put my arms around his neck, but he reached up and caught my wrists in his hand.

“No, no. I am…you say, calling the shots,” he said. He pushed my arms over my head and held them down. I could feel his cock stabbing at me, and I shifted my hips to welcome him. In the back of my mind, some vestigial remnant of common sense mumbled the word “condom.” But I hadn’t been handled so forcefully by anyone this masculine in…forever, actually.

I moaned and strained against his confining hand. He raised his pelvis and adjusted his head away from my opening. “No, Sara. So greedy.”

“Want you.”

“Like this?” He pressed the base of his cock against my swollen clit.

I cried out.