12. CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
KATIE
Group Chat: CPK Forever
Me: Help. Is it cheating if we’re technically broken up?
Petra: The fact you’re asking means you’re already halfway to doing it.
Cam: Jared gave up all rights to your body when he returned those wedding invitations.
Petra: We support all your bad decisions… especially the naked ones.
Me: But what if he wants to get back together?
Cam: He should’ve thought about that before letting you go.
Petra: NOW GET SOME ITALIAN DICK!
MATTEO MONTI GAVE ME my first orgasm last night.
And we didn’t even have full-on sex.
The morning sun glints off the spotless shuttle windows as I study the Mediterranean coastline, the turquoise waves sparkling like they’re teasing me. And fine, I’ll admit—seeing the gorgeous view without peering through a smudgy, crime-scene-level layer of grime is a treat. But at the same time, this sterile little bus with its new car smell and functioning seat belts… It feels wrong. Empty.
Is it weird that I miss that rolling death trap?
“Ready for some fun in the sun?” Aunt Deb says from the back where she’s draped over Howie like a human scarf. “These Italian beaches won’t know what hit ’em!”
Beach day. Aunt Deb’s Wish Card. And Howie’s, too, apparently. I don’t know what I expected from my auntie—a live volcano expedition maybe or riding elephants through the middle of Rome—but the beach seems surprisingly tame.
Meanwhile, all that stuff Aunt Deb’s been preaching about: pleasure, freedom, and living in the moment? Yeah, she was right. The kind of right that makes me want to erect a shrine in her honor—complete with an elaborate vibrator display—and set all my precious binders on fire as a sacrificial offering.
Because this? This feeling surging inside me like liquid lightning? This is what I’ve been missing. My body’s still buzzing like it’s auditioning for a role as Thor’s hammer, and muscles I didn’t know existed are giving a standing ovation for…
Matteo’s ridiculously talented mouth.
And his hands.
And his dirty words…
Bravo, Matteo. Bravo.
A shiver works its way down my spine. I bite my lip to keep from squirming, but Jesus, I can still feel him. Like his touch owns me now, from my lips down to my curled toes. No matter how I try, I literally can’t think of anything else. The sounds I made in that wine cellar—he drew them out, effortlessly, like he was uncorking a vintage chianti after years of pent-up pressure.
Is this how it happens? One earth-shattering orgasm and suddenly I’m ready to join a sex cult?
No wonder Aunt Deb travels the world chasing this high. How do people function after experiencing this? Like, are they just out there grocery shopping and answering emails while pretending they haven’t seen God between their thighs?
I fidget with the hem of my beach cover-up, attempting to conceal my legs. Beneath it, the skimpy bikini my auntie forced me to buy is a scandal waiting to happen. Black. Tiny. Basically craft string masquerading as swimwear.
I am not the kind of woman who wears barely there swimwear on European beaches. Or so I thought. But Matteo Monti has officially corrupted me.
The man responsible for last night’s fireworks is sitting four rows ahead, and he won’t even look my way. Like, hello? Earth to Matteo? The woman you turned into a quivering mess is right here, trying not to spontaneously combust every time the shuttle hits a bump.
But nope. He’s simply sitting there being all devastatingly handsome with his troubled eyes and clenched jaw, making me want to march up there and demand he tell me what’s wrong. Maybe while sitting in his lap. For emotional-support purposes only, obviously.
Where’s my insufferable tour guide? The one who flirts and makes inappropriate comments about “the harder the cork, the sweeter the wine.” Matteo Monti doesn’t do brooding. He does smirking, he does teasing, he does “Let me charm you out of your sensible panties.” Brooding does not suit him.
I wish I knew what was bothering him.
The morning sun catches his profile, highlighting the stubble I remember feeling against my inner thighs, and I grab my hips remembering his caress. Last night, he looked at me as if I were his salvation and his destruction all wrapped into one.
God, I want him to look at me like that again.
My smile falters as I remember the way he left me in the wine cellar, gently putting my panties back on. No cuddling, no expectation of anything in return—just a quick getaway.
My brain—overthinking menace that it is—starts spiraling. Maybe last night was too much. Maybe he saw what Jared saw—that I’m exhausting. That my need to control everything, to plan every moment—
Stop it, Katie. Matteo is not Jared.
Matteo… he’s different. He doesn’t try to fix or change me. He called my organizational skills a superpower . And last night? For the first time in my life, I completely let go. No plans, no schedules, no analyzing what would happen. I let him take control, and I… I finally understood what it meant to be free.
The realization hits me like I downed a double espresso—I don’t want more orgasms (I mean holy cannoli, I do), but what I really want is more of that feeling. That moment where I’m not Perfect Katie with her life all planned out. I want to discover the unexplored parts of myself and who I can be.
I’m sure Matteo’s stupid no-tourist rule comes from experience—probably dozens of clingy women who thought one night of passion meant locking him down. But I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for right now. For a chance to explore this new version of myself who can take what I want without analyzing it to death first. To be spontaneous and maybe even a little bit wild.
I grin to myself, sliding a hand under my cover-up for a quick peek at the bikini. The old Katie would need three spreadsheets and a pros-and-cons list before even considering wearing this flimsy excuse for swimwear. But the old Katie never knew what it felt like to come so hard she saw actual stars.
The bus shudders to a stop, and Matteo rises from his seat, his deep voice calling out to the group. “ Signore e signori , welcome to the waves!”
Lorenzo opens the bus doors, and our senior citizens deploy their beach gear as if they’re storming Normandy. I take a steadying breath.
No more planning.
No more waiting.
No more rules.
Watch out, Italian Stallion. You’re about to find out what happens when a perpetual planner throws caution to the wind and takes what she wants.
***
When your aunt starts a sentence with “Gather round, my naughty darlings, let’s get this party started!” immediately run in the opposite direction. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Just run.
But no. Here I am, toes curled in the sand, watching Deborah Fox perched on a driftwood log like some bohemian prophet summoning a congregation to witness a miracle.
“Today, Howie and I share the same wish,” Aunt Deb announces, “to experience Italy the way God intended. Naked!”
My jaw unhinges so fast I might need surgery.
Did she say naked ?
I grip my cover-up tighter, clinging to the only thing standing between me and sheer, unadulterated humiliation. I struggled to work up the nerve to wear this teeny bikini. Going fully birthday suit? Around other people? No. No, no, no.
I should have seen this coming. Of course it’s a nude beach.
Howie steps forward, somehow already shirtless, his Southern drawl dripping with charm. “As my sweet tea here is saying, we’ve earned every single one of these imperfections. My artificial hip? That’s from boogieing too hard at Zumba class. My knee replacement? Vietnam. And this gut?” He pats his round belly proudly. “My trophy of appreciation for good bourbon and better barbecue.”
“After seventy-plus years of living, what do we have to be ashamed of?” Aunt Deb continues. “These wrinkles? They’re our story maps. These sags? They’re gravity’s love letters. These age spots? They’re beauty marks from Father Time himself!”
“And darlin’, time’s given you the marks of an angel,” Howie says, pressing a kiss to Deb’s hand.
The sexual confidence I woke up with? The one that had me planning to seduce Matteo with my daring black bikini? It has packed its bags and booked a one-way ticket to anywhere but here.
Deb fans herself dramatically. “We’ve spent our whole lives being contained, being… clothed. But not today, my dears. Today we’re going to be as free as Italian seagulls! As naked as Roman statues. As natural as the day we took our first breath.”
I can’t decide what’s worse—her speech or the fact that it’s so effective.
The crowd cheers. Someone throws their hat in the air.
“Now you two”—Aunt Deb wags a finger at Matteo and me—“keep those perky parts covered. This is a celebration of vintage bodies only! We’re talking fine-aged wine here, not fresh grape juice. If you want to be frisky in the wind”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you’ll have to find another spot on the shoreline.”
Matteo winks at her. “Don’t worry, Deb. Your oh-so-proper Katie has already decided to stay covered. Though”—he leans in closer to me, his voice low and playful—“I was hoping to see what you were hiding. After last night, I already know how delizioso you are.”
“Hmmm. What was last night? Oh, your performance?” I tease him, my voice coming out breathier than intended. “I’d say it’s under review. I really have to draw up a flowchart and pie graph before I can properly assess your skills.”
“Those noises you made say otherwise.” His eyes darken dangerously.
Before I can explain that Wine Cellar Katie was clearly possessed by a sex demon, Howie claps his hands together.
“All right, folks! Let it all hang out! Remember, what happens on an Italian nude beach stays on an Italian nude beach!”
And then it happens. A flurry of movement. Shirts flying. Shoes kicking up sand. Belts snapping open. It’s like a geriatric strip-a-thon, and I am entirely unprepared.
Chester starts unbuttoning his Body By Bacon T-shirt, revealing a pale, hairless chest. “Time to let the boys breathe! You know you’re an old man when the bells hang lower than the rope!”
That gets a laugh from every guy in the group.
The Dawson sisters perform a synchronized striptease that would make Chippendales blush.
“Freedom!” Agnes announces while Margaret adds, “The only fashion trend that never goes out of style!”
“Always wondered how a breeze feels… down there,” Stan mutters, shimmying out of his khakis.
Skin. So much skin.
And then… Oh. Sweet. Jesus.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head as Chester casually starts doing lunges, buck-naked. He’s surprisingly flexible, but his, um, “frank and beans” are just flopping around and hitting the sand when he goes into a deep lunge. I try to look away, but I’m helplessly glued to the sight. Next, Howie joins in!
Matteo chuckles at my astonished expression, thoroughly enjoying the show.
“It’s not funny,” I say to him. “Now they’re doing jumping jacks! No. Those things flapping and swinging should not be testing the laws of physics.”
He snickers, and I hate how charming he sounds. “It’s merely gravity doing its thing. You know, everything that goes up…”
“Shake what you got, lovelies!” Aunt Deb’s voice pierces through my meltdown, and there she is—my aunt, my blood relative—leading a conga line of naked seniors down the shoreline, her sun hat bobbing cheerfully as they all jiggle along in rhythm.
“If you squint,” Matteo says, narrowing his eyes in mock concentration. “It’s almost… art. Like one of those surrealist paintings where everything sags a bit too much.”
My eyes dart frantically between naked bodies in the world’s most disturbing game of Ping-Pong. “Please tell me this isn’t normal for Italian beaches.”
Matteo, looking way too entertained by my suffering, shrugs. “No, principessa. Usually there’s less… enthusiasm. And more pants.”
“I will never use the phrase low-hanging fruit again.”
“Why fight it?” Matteo’s smirk is infuriating. “They’re living their best lives. Dancing. Laughing. Showing the world that age is just a number.”
“My boobs are officially terrified.” I fling an arm over my chest protectively. “They’re wondering how many years they’ve got left before they’re roommates with my belly button.”
He leans in, his whisper dripping with mischief. “If it helps, I’m imagining your breasts are—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I hiss, jabbing him in the ribs but not before he unleashes some mysteriously filthy Italian.
“Matteo!” shouts Aunt Deb from across the sands. “Time to start the Beach Olympics! We need you to bring some dignity to the hot-dog-eating contest.”
“Really? You’re going to watch them deep-throat wieners. On a nude beach?” I ask.
He squeezes my hip, his searing touch burning through my cover-up. “Try not to miss me during the naked three-legged race.”
I groan in frustration. How can I still want to jump a man’s bones when every other bone on the beach is swinging freely in the breeze?
I spot our ever-silent bus driver perched on a rock (clothed, thank God), peeling a banana with the same level of intensity most people reserve for defusing bombs. The motion is oddly hypnotic but also deeply unsettling.
“Hey, Lorenzo.” I sigh, slumping next to him. “I need to talk to someone, and you don’t speak English, so congratulations, you’re my new therapist.”
He grunts, barely acknowledging my existence. God, I wish I had his zen. Instead, I’ve got an ache between my thighs that won’t quit, even in the midst of this geriatric fever dream.
“Okay, so last night was monumental. I mean it, truly. You know how some people say they’ve had a religious experience? Well, I had one. In a wine cellar. With Matteo’s tongue.” I hide my blushing face in my hands.
I steal a glance at Lorenzo, still nothing. Just chewing his banana as he flicks a glance toward the volleyball game where Aunt Deb is now leading some sort of impromptu huddle.
“It’s like he uncovered this whole other side of me that was hiding under all my binders with one flick of his stupidly talented tongue. Let me tell you something, Lorenzo—that orgasm, it was life-altering. Six years of scheduled intimacy with Jared and not once did I soak the sheets. But Matteo? One night and he’s completely rewired my body.”
Lorenzo starts peeling another banana. Where is he even getting these?
“The thing is… I’ve never wanted anyone like this before. Never felt this out of control, this desperate, this… horny. But he’s definitely not on the same page because afterward he… straight-up left. Put my panties back in place like a gentleman and disappeared. Who does that?”
Lorenzo grunts—a low, almost pitying sound—as he gives a subtle shake of his head. I’m not sure if he’s agreeing or feeling bad that Chester just took a volleyball straight to the nuts.
“But now,” I continue, “I’m in panic mode. Because Matteo has this rule—this no-tourist hookups rule—and I’m worried he made it up to avoid me. He said it’s to keep things professional, to avoid drama. But it could be his polite way of saying I’m too uptight, too… boring? What if I’m too much? Not sexy enough?”
The banana peel joins its compadre on the sand, and Lorenzo folds his arms across his chest. I swear his eyebrow twitches, as if he’s finally paying attention.
“Or worse—what if last night was nothing but… customer service? Like, ‘Hey, better give the uptight American a mind-blowing orgasm so she doesn’t tank my Yelp reviews.’”
I stare at Matteo as he serves the volleyball. “God, that’s it, isn’t it?”
Lorenzo sighs deeply, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
“You’re right, Matteo wouldn’t do that.” I sigh. “But how do I be that woman? The one who confidently goes after what she wants? Because… I want him. All of him. I want to know what else those hands can do, what other sounds he can draw from my body. I want—”
Lorenzo stands suddenly, his movement cutting off my rambling. Then, with military precision, he starts stripping.
“What are you…?” The words die in my throat as he tosses his clothes aside.
First the cap comes off, revealing his wispy silver combover. Followed by the shirt. Then, sweet merciful heavens, the pants. He turns to face me, stark naked and unapologetic.
“Piccola,” he says, his voice rough as gravel. “When man make woman feel like that? He not thinking about reviews. He thinking about her. Only her.” He picks up his cap and plops it on my head like some sort of surreal mic drop. “Matteo’s rule? It’s for himself. To keep people out. But you?” He smiles. “You are worth breaking it.”
Without another word, he jogs toward the naked volleyball game, everything swinging and bobbing with the chaotic energy of a bag of marbles in a tumble dryer.
I’m frozen. Mortified. Beyond embarrassed. Everything I blabbed was out loud… to a stranger.
I just trauma-dumped my sexual crisis on our secretly-English-speaking bus driver.
And the worst part? I’m still clueless about what to do.
***
I need a condom! Like, pronto. Not tomorrow, not in an hour— NOW . Because once Lorenzo finishes his naked volleyball game and tells Matteo about my complete mental breakdown, I’ll never get my chance to experience his full Italian package. He’ll take one look at me and run. Hell, I’d run too.
I scan the cove with the desperation of someone tracking down the last roll of toilet paper during a pandemic. But unless there’s a secret 7-Eleven hiding behind all these glistening senior citizen bodies (oh God, so much glistening) , I’m screwed.
Think, Katie, think!
That’s when I spot it—Aunt Deb’s beach bag. She probably has a Costco-sized pack of condoms in there. But asking her for protection? Absolutely not. She’d organize a Katie’s Finally Doing the Nasty With an Italian Stud flash mob with the seniors.
Nope, sneaky purse burglary it is.
Act natural. You’re just a girl, standing in front of her aunt’s bag, about to commit petty theft so she can get laid.
My hand slips inside and—
Bzzzzzzzzzz!
Why am I even surprised? Of course she brought her “travel companion” to the beach. The sudden vibration against my fingers startles me, but it’s the memory of Matteo feasting on me that makes my breath hitch. My body is screaming, Go to Matteo now!
Down girl, we gotta get what we came for first.
After what seems an hour of fumbling past more “massagers” (plural!) , sunglasses, a water bottle, and some weird object that feels like military dog tags, my fingers close around the cool, foil packet. Victory!
But where to put it? This bikini has less fabric than a Band-Aid. With a resigned sigh, I tuck the foil packet into the front of my bikini bottoms, praying it stays put. Each step makes the foil crinkle as if it’s announcing This Girl is DTF in morse code.
My entire body hums. I’m nervous and excited. I’m nervicited! Sex on the beach? Maybe this is too crazy.
But Lorenzo’s words surge through me like liquid courage: “Matteo’s rule? To keep people out. But you? You are worth breaking it.”
“Matteo! I’m going for a walk,” I announce, projecting Aunt Deb vibes.
He faintly glances my way. “Be safe.”
“Um, which part of the beach is best for topless tanning?”
That gets his attention.
His head snaps up so fast I hear his neck crack. In three long strides, he’s in my space, radiating heat and male possession.
“Katie, being alone and naked?” His jaw clenches. “That’s asking for trouble.”
“Perfect.” I lift my chin. “Because I’m looking for trouble. And on a clothing-optional beach? I’m betting there’s at least one guy willing to make some bad choices with me.”
I turn to leave, but his hand wraps around my arm. The touch makes my lady parts pulse.
“Stay with the group.”
“Can’t. Aunt Deb’s wish, remember? Don’t want to rain on her naked parade.”
I watch his control fracture, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Before he can object, I reach for the knot at my waist and untie my cover-up, letting it slide off my shoulders.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say sweetly.
His jaw goes slack. His eyes rake over me, darkening with every second that passes. I don’t wait for him to recover. Instead, I turn slowly, making sure he gets a good look at what these thong bottoms do for my ass, and suddenly I’m a goddamn runway model strutting down the shoreline. My thundering heart mixing with the crashing sound of the waves.
“Katie!”
I keep walking. The condom wrapper crinkling against my skin like tiny applause.
“What would Jared think?”
I stop dead, spinning to face him. The waves crash around our ankles as I plant my hands on my hips. “I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“Dio mio,” he mutters. “What about what I think?”
“You’re welcome to join me.”
“So look but don’t touch?”
“Your rule.” I reach back, untying my top with trembling fingers. “Not mine.”
I toss the fabric away and Matteo actually stops breathing. “Cristo,” he murmurs. “Your tits are magnificent, cara.”
I lay back on the sand, arching deliberately. “And now they won’t have tan lines.”
He drops to his knees beside me, his eyes wild. “Madonna santa. I want my mouth on you so fucking bad, bellissima.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Katie.” His voice holds that infuriating mix of desire and restraint. “I… I can’t.”
“That’s fine.” I aim for casual but my heart is racing. “I’m sure one of those surfers down the beach will come get a closer look.”
“No one touches you, tranne me .”
The next second, his shirt vanishes in a blur. Before I can blink, he’s on me, pressing me into the sand. His kiss isn’t gentle—like last night—it’s desperate and demanding as if he’s been holding back and can’t anymore.
A wave surges over us, cold and relentless, but it might as well be pure lava for how it sets my body ablaze beneath his. The pressure of his lips, the scratch of his stubble—my entire being instantly craves its own undoing.
Then his mouth moves lower, his lips tracing my collarbone before he finds my nipple. There’s no gentle exploration, no timid testing—he pulls me into his mouth, hard and insistent, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub.
The waves drown out my moan, and Matteo doesn’t pause. His hands frame my breasts, his fingers pressing into my skin like he’s starving for me. His mouth moves to my other nipple, his tongue delivering a wicked flick before sucking me hard. I’m already gasping for breath.
I’ve never felt this—never been so worshiped, so desired. I always considered my breasts to be average—practical, at best. But the way Matteo devours me makes me feel like an absolute goddess.
“Matteo. Oh my… yes.” I pant, my nails digging into his back.
My hips buck up seeking friction. Every nerve ending is firing at once, and I can’t tell what’s sending me reeling—his mouth, his hands, the weight of him pressing me down.
I reach between us, slipping my hand into the waistband of his swim shorts. He props himself up on his arms, giving me space, and the lust in his eyes as I squeeze him is overwhelming.
Holy fuck, I finally get the eggplant emoji.
He’s so thick and hard I can barely get my hand around him.
My confidence soars when he groans, the sound vibrating through my whole body. “Fuck, Katie,” he growls, “you have no idea what you do to me, bella.”
My lips find the sensitive spot on his neck, and I suck hard, hoping to mark him. His hips thrust in response, and I start to stroke him, my hand moving with slow, deliberate movements, enjoying the way he throbs in my grasp.
His curse cuts through the rush of the waves. “Dio, sì, principessa. Keep doing that.”
The water crashes over us, soaking us both, but I’m completely lost in him. My world narrows to the man above me, the way his muscles tighten under my fingers, the way his lips part as his breaths grow urgent. The taste of salt water adds a raw, primal edge to our passion, driving me to stroke him more intensely.
Matteo leans close, his mouth brushing my ear. “Are you wet for me, Katie? With all this water I can’t tell. Are you?”
“Yes,” I gasp, the word torn from me. “God, yes.”
His hand slides between us, pinpointing my clit with breathtaking accuracy. The first touch of his fingers sends my body into a frenzy, and I’m on the brink—balancing it all—clinging to the moment but aching to surrender.
Then he freezes.
He pulls out the condom hidden in my suit, staring at it dangling from his fingers. His expression turns to stone.
“Of course you planned this. Seduce Matteo to break his rule. I walked right into your little game.”
“No wait. Please listen—”
He surges up, snatching his shirt and throwing it at me. “Put this on.”
“Are you kidding me?” I struggle with the clinging fabric. “It’s only sex. You have it all the time. What’s the big deal?”
“Just sex?” His laugh is harsh. “You think I don’t want it? Katie, I think about it—about you—every fucking second.”
“Then why fight it?”
“Because I like you, dammit!” The words explode from him. “Cristo, I shouldn’t, but I do.”
“You like me?”
“Merda.” He rakes his hands through his wet hair. “Sì, I do. That’s why this can’t happen.”
I’m bewildered, holding his shirt to my body that’s throbbing with need. How can something so simple feel so complicated?
I watch him walk away.