14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KATIE
Group Chat: CPK Forever
Me: Help. I think I’ve become a sex addict.
Petra: FINALLY!! Details. Now. Every filthy one.
Cam: Our Katie? Getting some Italian action?
Me: Not just some. ALL the action.
Petra: YESSSS! Katie Sextravangza = SUCCESS.
Me: Multiple successes actually.
Cam: I’m officially living vicariously through your orgasms.
Petra: Jared who? More like Jared WHO CARES.
I CAN'T STOP SMILING.
My face is stuck in an I-just-won-the-Powerball-while-cuddling-puppies expression. I’m barely aware that I am sitting in the breakfast room of our Venice hotel—the croissant in front of me untouched—because I’m lost in the constant carousel of yesterday’s memories.
Bologna? I think we went to Bologna yesterday. I vaguely recall something about famous towers? Tortellini? Everything’s a delicious blur after that moment in the empty tour bus. While everyone else was admiring the architecture of some fancy church, Matteo was giving me a very different kind of religious experience in the last row.
He whispered, “Let go, bellissima” against my neck as I bit back a scream, trying not to alert the entire city to our escapade. And later, in his hotel room… well, let’s just say my very definition of perfection has been thoroughly and delightfully upended.
My thighs still ache in the most delicious way, and I’m pretty sure my underwear is on backwards. But hey, at least I remembered underwear today.
“Good morning, Katie-kins!” Aunt Deb’s voice cuts through my coitus-fueled haze like a trumpet. She floats into the eating area with Howie on her heels. Before I say anything, she squeals. “You had sex!”
“What? No!”
“Oh honey, I know that look. I invented that look.” She leans forward, eyes twinkling. “It was our devastatingly handsome tour guide, wasn’t it?”
My entire face ignites. “No! Of course not! What—why would you even say that?”
Deb gives me a knowing stare, then turns to Howie. “It was Matteo.”
“I don’t blame her,” Howie drawls, his smile slow and easy. “The fella’s like one of them models you’d see in a cologne commercial.”
“Thank you!” Deb says, gesturing at him as if he’s just proven her point.
“Oh my God,” I groan, sinking lower in my seat. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”
“Fine,” Deb says dramatically. “Let’s talk about my sex life. It’s more exciting than yours anyway.”
I scramble to redirect, my voice squeaky. “Howie, what exactly do you do? Or did, before retiring?”
Howie chuckles, amused by my awkward pivot. “I’m retired, Miss Katie. Used to be the CEO of Dixon’s Delights. Family business, four generations strong. We make those Butter Bliss Bars you kids grew up on and a few other sugary goodies.”
I gape at him. “I would trade my whole lunch—even on pizza day—to get one of those bars! You’re a candy legend!”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” His smile turns soft as he admires Deb. “These days, I take interest in the finer things in life. Like this magnificent lady right here.”
Deb fans herself dramatically. “You’ll have me swooning to death if you keep talking like that!”
“And then I’d have to invent a candy in your honor,” he says smoothly. “Something sweet, a little spicy, and completely irresistible.”
Okay, I admit it—my heart melts a little. They may overshare, but they’re seriously cute.
I’m about to tease them when the atmosphere in the room shifts. My skin prickles with awareness as Matteo strides in.
He’s a feast for the eyes in that navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, displaying those forearms that I now know demolish a woman’s self-control. His dark hair is still slightly damp, curling only at the edges—his face freshly shaven.
“Buongiorno!“ he says with a deep, accented voice, cutting through the breakfast chatter. The room immediately quiets. “Today we explore Venice on foot, so everyone must wear comfortable walking shoes.” His eyes lock onto mine, dark with allure. “One hour till go time!”
Before the wink he shoots me fully registers, I am on my feet. “I’d better… um… change my shoes.”
Deb’s brow arches, but mercifully she says nothing as I bolt for the exit.
I arrive at the elevator where—surprise, surprise—Matteo’s waiting, leaning against the wall like a walking, talking orgasm.
“Looking for me, principessa?” He smirks.
“Oh, didn’t notice you standing there,” I say, pressing the elevator button. “Gotta grab my binder—be fully prepared for your riveting, well-planned schedule today.”
“My best plans involve you forgetting how to breathe.” His fingers tease the bottom of my short floral sundress before pulling me into the elevator right as the doors open.
“Excuse me, but I have a very detailed itinerary that needs—”
“I will tend to every one of your needs, bella.”
“Promise?”
The elevator doors close and his mouth collides with mine. We stumble down the hallway, a mess of wandering hands. Matteo fumbles for his room key.
“One hour,” he growls against my throat as we finally reach his door.
The door clicks shut behind us, and all thoughts of schedules, seniors, and sightseeing vanish.
I only want him.
***
Venice is wasted on the sexually awakened.
Here I am, floating through one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and all I can focus on is how Matteo’s knee keeps brushing mine every time our gondola takes a turn. His bare skin on my sundress-exposed leg is a live wire, zapping my brain and turning me into a puddle of lust.
The afternoon sun glints off the canal water, creating a mosaic of light that ripples against the effortlessly grand buildings surrounding us. The scent of the water—a blend of salt, moss, and the faint tang of history—fills the air, while the soft murmur of distant conversations mingles with the rhythmic dip of the gondolier’s oar. Then there are the arches of stone bridges crisscrossing above, framing the sky in fleeting snapshots as we drift beneath them.
It’s surreal, better than any dreamlike state you can imagine. At least it should be. But not when you’re mentally undressing your tour guide. Which I am… Again.
“And on your right is the famous Bridge of Sighs. Named for the sounds prisoners would make as they caught their final glimpse of Venice while being transported from the Doge’s Palace to the prison.”
Matteo’s voice carries that tour guide authority that used to make me want to shove a sock in his mouth. Now it makes my knees weak, remembering how only this morning he commanded me to bend over the desk in his room and—
I mean, seriously? Is this what it’s like to be a man? Constant, overwhelming, can’t-even-think-about-anything-else horniness? No wonder the world’s a mess—everyone’s too busy being thirsty to save the planet.
Stan and Rose are cuddled together in the rear of the gondola, resembling honeymooners. “Last time we were here”—Rose’s eyes twinkle as she squeezes Stan’s hand—“this one tried to stand up to take a picture and nearly capsized us! The gondolier cursed in Italian the entire ride back.”
“Worth it.” Stan plants a kiss on her temple. “Got a great picture of my beautiful bride.”
My tears well up watching them. That’s what I thought I’d have with Jared. That comfort. That certainty. That knowledge—of being right where you belong.
But Jared didn’t want that. Not with my neurotic, overplanning self.
I get it now—why Aunt Deb lives how she does. When you can’t have forever, all you have are moments of pleasure. That’s why she chases climaxes across continents and collects memories instead of promises. Now is all we have, and maybe that’s enough.
But am I built for that? Could I be satisfied with incredible sex and stolen moments in hotel rooms? Or will I always wish for more?
I wanted to be the woman who takes what she wants. Mission accomplished. But now what? The problem with deciding to be spontaneous is that there’s no instruction manual.
Stan kisses Rose’s hand, and instead of that old yearning for a perfect life plan, I catch myself wondering how Matteo’s hand would feel in mine. Not during sex. Just… holding hands. Strolling through Venice. Making stupid jokes about pigeons.
The kind of thing he’d probably run screaming from.
And then Rose gently cradles Stan’s cheek in her palm, kissing his lips with such tenderness. My heart cracks. The gesture holds sixty years of love, of choosing each other every day, of building a life wrapped in certainty and trust.
And fuck, I want that. I want the spark and the stability. The fireworks and the forever. The earth-shattering orgasms and the gentle forehead kisses.
I want it all.
But Matteo Monti doesn’t do relationships. That’s not a theory; it’s a fact. Like gravity or the way my thighs instantly turn to jelly when he speaks Italian.
He’s basically a tourist attraction himself—the hot tour guide who leaves a trail of satisfied women and steamy memories across Italy. The guy who’s elevated the morning-after escape into an art form. His longest relationship is probably with his bus.
It’s totally fine. Nothing but a vacation fling. This thing between us—it’s hot and intense, and it’ll burn out as fast as it started.
We both signed on for temporary.
***
A few hours later, our tour group is huddled together, gazing up at the iconic Rialto Bridge.
“Welcome to Venice’s most famous shopping center,” Matteo announces to our group, gesturing at the massive stone structure arching over the Grand Canal. “Where Venetians have been separating visitors from their money since the 1500s.”
He’s not kidding. The ancient arches are crammed with enough souvenir shops to make you wonder if the Romans had a thing for key chains and fridge magnets. The covered walkway is a maze of boutiques selling everything from “authentic” Murano glass (probably from China) to white carnival masks (you know, the ones with serial-killer vibes) to gondolier hats (you too can be a Mario Brother).
The smell of leather and coffee mingles in the air, along with that distinctive scent of tourist excitement and impending credit card debt.
“You have one hour for shopping and exploring.” Matteo shouts over the buzz of tourists and vendors. “We’ll return here for lunch. One hour till go time!”
I hang back, half-browsing a rack of postcards as he deftly manages the chaos. The man handles crowd control like he handles… other things. With skill, patience, and goddamn finesse.
“Bathroom?” Mrs. Thomas does her signature pee-dance shuffle.
“Which stores won’t scam us?” the Dawson sisters demand in stereo.
“Yo, fam!” Chester adjusts his hearing aid. “Where do I get some sick drip? My grandson says I need more swag.”
“Sugarplum, let’s get you out of those clothes…” Howie drawls, “and into some new ones.”
“Why, Mr. Dixon”—Aunt Deb bats her eyelashes—“if you want to get your hands on my unmentionables, all you have to do is ask.”
“Quite the contrary, my dear sweet tea. I say we find a lingerie store and dress up those unmentionables. Maybe find more of that warming massage oil.”
“Ooh, yes! I do need new crotchless underwear… and maybe some handcuffs.”
I spot a postcard with a grumpy cat in a gondolier’s hat—absolutely made for Mom. I’m so buying it and sending a note: “ Wish you were here. Not texting me every five minutes about Jared. ”
Seriously, does she have some sort of Meddle in Your Daughter’s Love Life app? Her constant stream of friendly reminders to reach out to my ex is hitting Guinness World Record levels. If I get one more “ Just thinking… Jared always liked lasagna!” text, I will ghost my own mother.
Newsflash, Mom: Jared hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t even liked the red dress thirst trap I posted at the Duomo. He’s not interested. And honestly? Neither am I. For the first time, I don’t care about someone else’s expectations. I’m living in the moment, having fun, figuring things out as I go. Imagine that.
The real question is… should I write this snarky note in calligraphy?
A warm hand wraps around mine.
Matteo.
His dark eyes, the color of deep Italian espresso, hold me captive for a moment. Then, without a word, he starts pulling me through the crowd. I follow because those hands do magical things to my body, which—apparently—now operates with a Pavlovian response.
Are we heading to some hidden alcove? Some secret spot where he’ll do that thing with his tongue that makes me lose my mind and my panties (not necessarily in that order) ?
Um. What?
The Hard Rock Cafe shop?
The windows are packed with neon signs, band T-shirts, and an overwhelming amount of merchandise emblazoned with the Hard Rock logo. Guitars hang like a row of storm clouds, silently grumbling above the heads of shoppers while goth jewelry, coffee mugs, and other touristy gifts litter every square inch of the store. The music in here is deafening, with screechy guitar solos blasting so loud I can feel it in my teeth. This is the loudest store, both literally and figuratively, I have ever been in.
“Matteo, what the hell are we doing here?”
He says nothing, walking us past a teenage employee in a ripped black T-shirt who has more facial piercings than face. There’s a culture clash of customers—some are ready to headbang to AC/DC, while others look like they floated in from a yacht party.
Um, why does it feel like we’re hitting up a Hot Topic at Mall of America?
I turn to him, trying to hide my WTF expression. “This isn’t very… Venetian.”
Matteo still doesn’t say anything. He releases my hand just long enough to grab a few shirts off a rack, then he pulls me deeper into the store. My brain is still processing when he yanks open a dressing room door and tugs me inside.
The moment Matteo shuts the door, the click of the lock echoes like a starting gun, and suddenly his hands and lips are on me.
Fast.
Rough.
Wild.
My back hits the wall, and his body presses into mine as if we’re two puzzle pieces not meant to fit, but we definitely do. Intimately.
I try to think, but Matteo’s hands are all over my body. I sense his urgency, his need for me, and it’s exhilarating.
“You have no idea how hard it is to resist you, Katie.” His lips brush my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
I gasp between hungry assaults on my neck.
“Matteo,” I whisper, not quite knowing if it’s a plea or a protest. My pulse is pounding in my ears. Muffled rock music bleeds through the dressing room walls because… we’re in a freaking store .
“We’re—” I gasp as his hands slide under my dress, his fingertips brushing bare skin. “We’re in public!”
He pauses, long enough to meet my gaze. “I don’t see anyone else, principessa. Just you and me.”
My brain’s catching up as he grips the waistband of my panties. With one swift motion, he tugs them down my legs.
I’m bare.
Exposed.
Loving it.
I want him and he knows. His fingers find me instantly, sliding between my thighs and pressing against my clit with maddening precision. “Cristo, you’re already so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval.
“Oh God,” I moan louder than I should.
That—that right there—is exactly why I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a Hard Rock store, for crying out loud. There’s probably a dad out there buying a Nirvana T-shirt for his kid while I’m here dripping all over my tour guide’s fingers.
“Don’t you see? You don’t have to be quiet in here,” Matteo breathes into my ear.
The loud rock music blares. The very loud music. Music so loud that it will muffle the sounds of our passion. I glance around the changing area, my breath hitching as I take in the high walls and solid door. No gaps, no cracks, and no way for anyone to see or hear us. And finally, a light bulb. That’s why he chose here.
“Relax,” Matteo whispers, his lips dragging across my jaw as his fingers pick up the pace, circling faster, harder. “We own this moment. You’re safe with me.”
Safe? Ha. If anything, I’m in danger—of losing my mind, my self-control, and whatever shreds of dignity I have left.
“Why are you—” I gasp. His thumb brushes over a spot that has me refocusing all my attention on him. “Why are you so good at that?”
His grin is lethal. “Practice.”
Screw it.
I grab the hem of his shirt and yank it up, dragging it over his head with more force than necessary. He smirks, the sharp edge of his teeth glinting like a warning, and my stomach flips—it’s no longer fear, just pure exhilaration from this impossibly, devastatingly sexy beast of a man.
My hands splay across his chest, sliding down over his abs—each ridge firm and flawless and completely unfair. My palms brush lower, and (oh damn) there he is. Thick and hard and straining against his pants.
“Dear Lord,” I mutter under my breath, unable to stop myself from cupping him, enjoying him twitch beneath my touch. “Do you always get this hard this fast, or am I special?”
He chuckles, his hands tightening on my hips. “You’re very special, cara.”
I’d roll my eyes at his cocky tone, but I can’t stop sliding my hand up and down, marveling at how his body is responding. The way his jaw flexes, his chest heaves, and his stare darkens tells me that my touch is the sole thing that can feed his need.
In the past, sex was… pleasant enough. Something I didn’t mind. Honestly, I got some of my best meal planning done during those scheduled sessions. But this?
This is nothing like that.
I am breathless.
Shameless.
Unhinged.
“Matteo,” I shout, my voice barely audible over the pounding rock music outside. “Are we really going to hook up in a store full of people?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth. “Does this answer your question, tesoro?” With a quick, confident motion, he pushes down his shorts, revealing his rock-hard cock (or should I say his Hard Rock cock) and then expertly rolls on the condom. His eyes never leave mine.
Damn. Well. Okay then.
For a split second, doubt creeps in. Has he done this before? Is this where he usually brings women? But then his mouth crashes onto mine, and every thought evaporates.
“I want to hear your pleasure,” Matteo says.
“Then I better fucking hear yours.”
His grip tightens, and his eyes darken. “This won’t be gentle.”
And then, in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts me, pressing me higher against the wall, and thrusts into me… hard.
I cry out. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist as a surge of lust courses through my body.
It’s intense. Brutal and fast and unrelenting. Every drive of his hips is a lightning strike, sharp and electrifying, lighting me up from the inside out. Each thrust forcefully plunges deeper. He’s gripping my ass so tightly I love that I’ll have bruises tomorrow.
“You feel…” His voice is ragged. “Cristo, Katie. Your pussy was made for me.”
My head rolls back in bliss. “No one’s ever— Oh my God—no one’s ever made me feel like this,” I manage between his relentless movements.
Every thrust is harsh.
Unforgiving.
Divine.
“Yes, Matteo yes! Rougher… harder!”
My God! I’m in public. I am literally screaming out this man’s name and no one can hear me. Mr. Monti, what have you done to me?
“Tell me you love my cock inside you!”
“It’s fucking magic! I love it. God don’t stop! Make me come!”
My words spur him on, his rhythm quickening. I’m clutching at his shoulders—my nails digging into his skin—Jesus, he’s good.
Hard rock music thunders in the background, a chaotic symphony of drums and guitars, but it’s nothing compared to the ragged sound of our breaths and the filthy, delicious words spilling from Matteo’s mouth.
“Dio mio, Katie,” he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. “You need to come. I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold back much longer.”
The raw plea in his voice sets my senses ablaze. I’ve never had this kind of power over someone before, never felt so desired. It’s beyond words, and I’ll chase it to the edge and beyond.
The pressure between my thighs is building, coiling tighter and tighter—almost unbearable. I squeeze my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and I bite down on my lip on instinct, then let myself cry out.
This isn’t making love. This is raw, unfiltered, unapologetic fucking. And I love every second of it.
“Fuck me harder. Harder. Yessss!”
“Oh Katie. God, yes! Principessa, bella, tesora, bellissima—”
His desperation drives me, and I find myself doing something I’ve never been brave enough to do in the presence of another person. I’ve always been too self-conscious, too timid. But now my hand dives between us, my fingers zeroing in on my clit. The instant I apply pressure, wild sensations explode through me.
Matteo’s eyes flicker down, catching the movement. “ Sei così sexy. That’s so fucking hot, Katie… Sto per esplodere . Fuck, I’m—”
He cuts off with a guttural groan as his orgasm crashes through him. He’s throbbing inside me—and we’re spiraling over the edge together.
The release is overwhelming, all-consuming. Tremors wash over me in waves. I am moaning like a porn star, loudly proclaiming my pleasure in a retail store with strangers. I’m so alive it hurts. Matteo continues to move, his thrusts slowing but never stopping, as the sounds of my climax finally simmer.
Goddammit, this man’s a genius.
When the final waves of pleasure subside, we collapse together, sliding down until we’re a tangle of limbs on the floor of the dressing room. Matteo pulls me close, his lips finding my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, each kiss softer than the last.
“You are… magnifica ,” he says, his voice soft but laced with awe. “So splendida . So precious.”
Precious? My heart stutters at the word. It shouldn’t mean anything—it’s simply a word. A word that doesn’t belong in our world of… whatever this is. But it sneaks in anyway, and I melt into him, letting myself sink into the comfort of his touch and the tenderness of his kisses.
Reality reemerges. My dress is bunched up around my hips, and I’m pretty sure there’s now a permanent Hard Rock logo stamped on my ass (thanks, wall) . I wriggle out of his hold, my legs wobbling slightly, and I reach for my bag.
I fish around my purse and thank God for my Type A personality—turns out, overpreparedness pairs perfectly with poorly planned sexcapades. Travel-pack Kleenex for the win.
His lips twitch into that infuriatingly perfect smirk. “Miss Katie Crawford, ready for every occasion.”
“I call it being responsible,” I say, tossing him a tissue. “Try it sometime.”
Watching him clean himself up is almost as distracting as watching him strip in the first place. Almost.
“You say responsible,” he says, balling up the tissue and tossing it into the tiny waste bin, “but I say adorable. And also, kind of sexy.”
“Sexy? Jared always said my obsessive planning was too much.”
“He’s a fool not to see that all of you is sexy.”
My heart soars at his praise, but I shut it down fast. Don’t read into it. Of course he’s being nice after he rammed his rod so hard that I’ll be walking funny for the rest of the day.
We straighten our clothes with trembling fingers, trying to hide the fact that we just had the hottest quickie in retail history. The mirror reveals exactly what Italian-induced ecstasy does to a girl’s previously styled hair.
I reach for the door. He catches my hand.
“Go on a date with me.” He pauses, running his free hand through his hair. “I mean—I’m not forcing you to. I’ve never done this before. I’m asking. Per favore, go on a date with me, Katie.”
“Yes.” The word pops out instantly.
His smile lights up his whole face. He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that somehow is more intimate than all the filthy things we just did against that wall.
He takes my hand again, and we’re waltzing toward the entrance.
He tosses the shirts he’d grabbed onto the counter, telling the clerk, “She said it was too big. She really battled with it, trying to get it in, but it was a lost cause.”
The clerk’s eyes dart to me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Matteo glances at me, smirks, and then winks. A fully unrepentant, completely wicked wink.
We emerge into Venice’s afternoon bustle, our fingers still intertwined. I stare at our joined hands, a knot tightening in my chest. It feels right . Like I’ve been walking around with an empty space in my life, and somehow Matteo has filled it. Effortlessly.
Oh shit.
This is more than sizzling sex. This is something far more dangerous. Feelings . Big, unruly, I’m-not-sure-I-can-handle-this feelings.
What kind of lust-filled lunatic falls for a man who doesn’t believe in relationships?
Apparently me.
Congratulations, Katie. You’ve officially lost your damn mind.