Chapter 35
Santo collapses next to me.We’re both breathing hard, my body still fluttering and wonderfully satiated, even though I didn’t orgasm with the penetration.
I glance over at Santo. His hair is disheveled, and he has two spots of color on his cheeks that I’ve never seen before. Despite the chill in the air, we broke a sweat, and the combination of that and the scents of our arousal and clean sheets is heady.
Santo turns his head to look at me, and slowly, both our smiles bloom. He rolls toward me, palm slipping over the curve of my belly to settle on my hip. “Would you like to clean up first?”
I groan and theatrically drag myself out of bed, leaving Santo behind chuckling. I flip the light on in the bathroom and glance back. The bedroom is softly lit, so the light from the bathroom casts a bright spotlight on the bed, which feels poignant.
At the head of the bed in the shadows, I can barely make out Santo’s eyes on my body. Feeling saucy—a new feeling! When was the last time I was saucy?—I jut out a hip before closing the door.
When we switch places, I pull the sheet up to my armpits and prop myself up on the headboard and look around.
His villa is beyond what I’d imagined. It’s somehow rustic and classy, ironically reminding me of the refurbished items we sold at Second Chances. I know nothing about real estate in Italy, but this must be an expensive place. It’s also huge. The common areas are large and vaulted, and Santo told me there are four bedrooms.
And I know Santo comes from money. I pull the covers up further. It’s early, and we haven’t eaten yet, so I doubt we are going to sleep, but the bed is comfortable, and I am loath to leave this room.
Santo must feel the same because he slides back into bed after he’s done in the restroom.
“I Googled you,” I blurt.
Santo freezes for a moment and then relaxes next to me. “You Googled me?” he echoes.
“Yeah. Sorry, I felt weird not telling you I know about your family business now and the, um…”
“Money?” he guesses.
“Yeah.” I shift to face him. “You told me about your dad’s affair.”
Santo sighs. “Yes. But I think this conversation requires a drink. Would you like more Prosecco?”
Oooh, post-sex bubbly. “Yes, please.”
Santo walks out of the room buck naked and returns a minute or so later with two refilled glasses of wine. He settles back into bed, and we clink glasses. The wine is light and crisp and very good after a round of hot sex.
“Is Prosecco your favorite?” Santo asks. “It occurs to me I keep bringing you more and you may not like it so much. Do you have a wine you like better?”
I shake my head. “You’re right. Prosecco is my favorite. I mean, out of what I’ve tried, I guess, which isn’t much.” Our shoulders are lightly brushing, almost tickling me, so I lean against Santo a bit, pressing our upper arms firmly together. “My ex-in-laws once bought us a nice bottle of champagne. It had a yellow label, but I forget the brand, like Vu-something-something?—”
“Veuve Clicquot.”
“Yes, that one!” I sound out the name, and he repeats it for me until I can pronounce it correctly.
“The widow,” he adds.
“What?”
“That’s what veuve means. Widow Clicquot. A woman founded the house.”
“Really? When?” I have no idea how long it would take to grow a champagne empire that’s so recognizable.
“Oh,” Santo thinks. “Seventeen seventies, maybe? You should look her up. She was groundbreaking.”
Jesus. My country, if it was even a country yet, was a baby when that wine was made. “I will,” I promise. “Anyway, I didn’t love it, so I stayed away from bubbly for a while. But my friends and I often met at a wine bar, and I tried a few different things before I had my first glass of Prosecco, and I love it. So no, I won’t turn a glass down.”
Our legs are touching slightly, too, and I shift, and my foot rubs against his. He nudges it, and somehow, my leg ends up over his, my thighs slightly spread and my heel under his calf.
“Do you not want to talk about your dad?” I bring the conversation back.
“It’s fine,” Santo says. “Do you remember in the first term you told me you were trying to prove to yourself and your ex that you could do it without him?”
I nod.
“That’s all my father desired from me. He wanted me to have nothing to do with his business, so he was constantly pushing me away from it. At the time, all I wanted was to be spending time with him, and all he did was work. Looking back, I see my father was perhaps jealous that I had achieved so much. Even my successes were not mine because everyone knew who I was, and his name carried a lot of weight. So, you Googling me and learning about my past is not troublesome. I’m surprised you didn’t already know, actually.”
“Your bio at the school has no mention of it.”
“Ah, yes. Well, perhaps I wrote it while in the mood to snub my father.” He’s quiet for a moment before he switches the glass to his far hand and lifts the near one, wrapping it around my shoulders.
“What about your parents?” Santo asks.
I tell him about my mom, who died when I was a newlywed, and my dad, who passed away a few years ago. He’d remarried and was living in Houston, and we had grown distant. I ask about Santo’s mom—I know she died years ago, thanks to my internet sleuthing—and am told a sad story of a woman scorned who never recovered.
We should discuss something lighter. There are a few sips of Prosecco left in my glass, but I’m saving it so we don’t feel the need to get up yet. “Where’s Zola?” I haven’t seen the cat at all since Santo let her loose in the house.
“She has her own room.”
“Like the loft back in the city?” I tease.
“Even nicer,” he admits. “She’s a little spoiled here.”
“Here?” I tilt my head to look at Santo. “She’s a little spoiled in the city. She must be a queen here.” Santo chuckles. His empty wine glass is on the bedside table, and his free hand comes under the sheet and strokes the inside of my thigh, not so high that he’s going to accidentally touch between my legs, but enough to give me shivers.
And then my stomach rumbles. Santo chuckles and my body bounces. I finally toss back the last of the wine as Santo slips out of bed.
“I got you something,” he says, surprising me.
“You did?”
I untangle myself from the sheets while Santo opens a wardrobe and pulls out an occupied hanger. On it is a long bathrobe—light gray with a barely-there geometric pattern on the lapels. There are matching slippers, too, and when I reach out and touch the material, it’s so fine and soft it feels like silk.
“It’s cashmere,” Santo says, “so you’ll have to be careful washing it or maybe have a cleaner take care of it. But I thought perhaps if I have one weekend with you, I want you to be warm and comfortable and as close to naked as possible.”
He helps me slip it on and tie the belt around my waist. I don’t think I’ve owned anything so luxurious.
“Warmer, yes?”
“Yes,” I agree.
“No more catching pneumonia. Not on my watch.”
I laugh as Santo dresses himself in pants and a T-shirt. “I still can’t believe how sick I was after that weekend in Zurich. Shonda teases me about the weather all the time, says this is mild.”
In the kitchen, we put together an antipasto platter and pour more wine. At the table, we eat, talking and enjoying each other’s company. First, I’m ravenous, and the salty olives and smoked almonds are hitting the spot. Santo feeds me his favorite salami, which he calls spianata romana. When we finish ravaging the platter, Santo’s hand slides under the table and onto my cashmere-covered leg.
We’re talking about Abelie’s and my children’s teenage years, and swapping horror stories about boundaries being pushed, so at first Santo’s hand is just a simple gesture of affection. Then it slides down and finds the edges of the robe and comes to rest on my bare thigh, his thumb idly stroking while telling me about Abelie sneaking cigarettes into his house on a visit.
It’s distracting, though, and soon I squirm. “Santo.” My voice has a note of whining to it. I’m getting slick with arousal and am very aware that I have no underwear on. “I don’t want to get the cashmere dirty.”
He leans in, a wicked grin on his face. “Why don’t we go get my face dirty instead?”