Chapter 6
ABI
Hell no, I’m not going to miss a Lorenzo show. I’m not stupid, just a bit crazy.
I’m going to memorize every word from his mouth, every flex of his muscles, every sound the water makes as it hits his body, and replay them later . . . when I’m alone with my buzzy little friend.
He struts through my bedroom—our bedroom?—and into the bathroom, looking around appraisingly. “Nice,” he says simply about the marble, walk-in shower, double vanities, and wall-sized mirror. It’s way more than ‘nice’.
I sit in a chair just outside the bathroom, expecting him to close the door for some privacy. But I forgot how ‘no big deal’ Europeans are about nudity. Or maybe it’s just Lorenzo?
He pulls his shirt off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, and my tongue lolls out at the expanse of skin. The tattoos that line his neck and trail down his arms begin here, on the sharp ridges of his spine and smooth muscles of his back.
I watch as he reaches into the shower, turning the water on.
“What do you want to know?” Lorenzo asks, drawing my attention directly to him.
As if he timed it for my eyes to catch it, his linen slacks fall to the floor, and he kicks them off along with his flip flops. The puddle of his clothes means I can see his entire bare backside, from his shoulders to his heels and everywhere in between.
God, his ass is biteworthy! Butt dimples!
I must make some noise, a strangled sound of embarrassingly horny lust, probably, because he says again, “Abigail? What do you want to know?”
I want to know what your cock looks like.
I want to know if you speak English or Italian when you come.
I want to know why you’re doing this.
None of those are what I ask. As he steps into the shower and out of sight, I ask, “How did you get into cooking?”
From behind the glass, he speaks, “My Aunt Sofia taught me when I was a boy. I think it was mostly a way to keep me busy and out of trouble. I was a bit of a hellion even then, and she thought keeping me by her side would be good for me. She was right.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s done, but then he adds, “Until I wanted more. I left Positano—you should remember that. Say it.”
Dutifully, I repeat, “Positano. Where’s that?”
“West coast of Italy. That’s where I’m from.
” I nod, though he can’t see me, storing the information.
“I’d been cooking everything for my family for years by the time I was eighteen—made from scratch noodles, sauces and ragu that took all day to simmer, and growing fresh vegetables in our garden.
After a while, it was . . . routine. I knew there was more out there.
More flavors, more spices, more textures .
. . just more. So I left. I traveled Europe, spent some time in Spain, but the flavor profiles were similar and I wanted something truly different.
I made my way through Germany, then Japan, then India.
I never stayed anywhere more than a few months, getting a taste of the culture and style.
I even came to the States for a short while, exploring California fusion and New York’s steakhouses.
But after a long while, I was homesick. I went back to Italy, to the beginning, to my roots.
It was there that I got the offer for Avanti.
I’ve been making Italian food for the last couple of years, honoring my Aunt Sofia’s lessons every day. ”
“Wow,” I breathe, not able to imagine uprooting and moving every few months. “That sounds . . . awful.” I slap my hands over my mouth. “I mean, awesome.”
A deep chuckle echoes in the shower. “A nomadic life is not for everyone. But for others, it’s the only way.”
I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees, and consider his words.
Movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention.
I look closer and realize that from here, I can see the reflection of the shower in the mirror.
If the fog were wiped off the glass enclosure, I could see Lorenzo in all his naked glory.
Oh, it’s glorious. I’m sure of that just from seeing the back side.
Rapt, I watch as a haze of white suds covers the hazy blob of Lorenzo. Though it’s blurry, I can tell what’s happening as his hands massage the bubbles across his chest . . . down his abs . . . to where he takes himself in hand and gives himself a few good strokes.
Oh, God! Is he jacking himself off?
I’m mortified until his hands continue their trek, washing his thighs. It’s then that I realize this heat is not mortification. It’s disappointment. I want to watch him boldly fuck his hand right in front of me and watch him find his release while his eyes are locked on mine.
I squeeze my thighs together, honestly considering whether there’s a way for me to touch myself and get off quickly without Lorenzo being the wiser.
It wouldn’t take but a few strokes across my clit, I’m certain of that.
But even as my desperate pussy argues with my logical mind and my hands wander up my thighs, the water shuts off and I miss any opportunity I might’ve had.
Lorenzo steps into the bedroom, a white towel tucked around his waist. “Abigail? You okay?” he asks, his brows knit together in concern.
I must look extra crazy if he’s asking so gently. I can feel the flush on my cheeks, the wetness between my thighs under this robe, and the racing of my heart. “Yep, my turn.”
I get up and swish past him into the bathroom. I consider being just as bold as he was and leaving the door open as I shower, but I’m not that brave. So I push it closed with a foot, dropping my robe, and climbing into the shower. A cold shower.
It doesn’t matter, though. I’m so hot, the steam is coming from me instead of the water, and a naughty thought steals through my mind. Lorenzo is on the other side of the door now, not able to see me the way I could him. If I’m quiet . . .
I bite my lip, leaning back against the cool tile of the shower wall and letting my fingers dance down my belly. No time for foreplay, not even with myself this time. This has to be fast. I swipe through the moisture gathered at my center and massage it over my clit in a small circle.
“Abigail?” Lorenzo’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.
“Yes?” I say, hoping my voice sounds natural.
“What about our story? How we met? The proposal and wedding?” he says. Is it my imagination or does he sound strange? His voice is tighter than usual.
“Oh!” I say, half in answer to him and half because I tapped on my sensitive bud. I bite my bottom lip for strength and try to answer as my fingers keep moving. “Let’s keep it as close to the truth as possible. We met at Courtney’s wedding and hit it off.”
Until he ran out.
I let the negative thought float away as pleasure begins to rise higher.
“Yeah, and then we got married on the beach. Just the two of us, because that’s kind of what happened today.”
His voice is definitely sounding strangled. I imagine him on the other side of the door, jacking off as I touch myself, and even the mere idea turns me on even more.
“But it would’ve had to be sooner, not today. A fast . . . really fast . . . build-up,” I gasp out.
“To our wedding. You wearing white and saying my name.”
I don’t think we’re talking about an imaginary wedding anymore.
“And now we’re on our honeymoon, blissfully away from everything and everyone at home. Just the two of us.”
I grunt and bury my sealed lips against my shoulder to keep quiet as a wave of ecstasy washes through me. I keep tapping at my clit, prolonging the orgasm until I’m jerking with release and overstimulated.
“That sounds great. Love it, mia rosa,” Lorenzo says quietly. He sounds relieved too, and I wonder again.
I quickly wash off and step out of the shower to dry off. Wrapping up in a fresh towel, I walk into the bedroom to find Lorenzo.
Only, it’s empty.
“Lorenzo?” I call out.
“In here. I got dressed while you were showering. Go ahead and get ready. They’ll be here soon.” His voice is in the living room now, leaving me alone with my thoughts and spent body.
He’s right, though. I need to hurry and get ready.
I pull on a white sundress Archie picked out as a vacation option.
Beneath the thin gauze, I pull on a nude thong because it’s the only thing that won’t give me panty lines.
The strapless dress also doesn’t allow for a bra.
Both of those reasons are why I’d called the dress ridiculous, but Archie was right, and I’m thankful to have it with me and not only work clothes.
A touch of bronzer and some mascara make me glow like I’ve been kissed by the sun, and after pulling a brush through my mane of thick hair, I pull it up into a loose bun, leaving my neck exposed. It’s too warm to do much more.
Lorenzo looks up as I walk into the living room.
“Oh mio Dio,” he whispers. “Bellissima, mia rosa.”
I don’t speak Italian, but I know he just called me beautiful. I return the compliment. “You look nice too.”
Nice?
He looks good enough to eat. He’s got on beige slacks and dress shoes, with a white button-down shirt.
It could be stuffy and stodgy, an outfit worthy of a boardroom, but not the way Lorenzo wears it.
The collar of the shirt is unbuttoned, plus probably one more button than most American men would wear.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing the tattoos on his forearms and his watch.
Only one side of the shirt front is tucked in to highlight the supple leather of his belt and the slim cut of his trousers.
It’s the epitome of casual, effortless European hot.
He doesn’t approach me so much as he stalks toward me like a lion. And like a stupid gazelle, I stand stock-still and let him. Lorenzo picks up my hand from my side, kissing the back the way he did that first night. “You are brighter than the sun, deeper than the moon, lovelier than the stars.”