Chapter 8 #7
We can’t be anything more than whatever this is.
Secret. It scares the hell out of me.
Because it’s not just "oh, let’s do it before I leave, YOLO." It feels so much bigger. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff with two choices.
1) Stay safe. Keep my first time with a guy locked away for some hypothetical future where being with a man is simple and allowed and stable. Or…
2) Jump. Give it to him. Now. Even if I know he won’t be there forever. And the messed up thing? I want to jump. Even knowing I’m going back to Canada. Even knowing we’ll probably go back to pretending, to distance, to video calls and time zones, or maybe even nothing at all.
There’s a part of me that’s like: If I’m going to cross that line with a man, I want it to be with the one who makes me feel everything. Even if it hurts later.
Even if I’m alone in my tiny Canadian house replaying it in my head like a movie. It feels almost like giving him a piece of me I know I won’t get back.
On purpose.
Not because "we’re meant to be" or "we’ll end up married" or any of that fairytale shit.
Because I’m here now.
Because he’s here now.
Because this version of us, in this hotel, in this city, at this age, is never going to exist again.
And that makes me panic. I’m terrified that I’m willingly signing up to have my heart ripped in half by my first time with a guy. But my body doesn’t care. My feelings don’t care. They’re both saying the same thing.
Even if it’s not forever… even if it breaks you later… you want your first time with him. And that’s what really fucks me up. Jesus Christ. All he did was taking off my shirt. All he did was touching my fucking tattoo.
What the hell is wrong with me?
…
We make it to the beach. We pick one with barely any people, on purpose. You never know. The less eyes on us, the better.
Because yeah, the better we get, the more we have to hide. Depressing but true.
The waves are a little wild. I can already see us fighting for our lives in the water in like ten minutes. We drop our towels in a corner of the sand, away from everyone else.
I’m still adjusting my shorts when Gio just peaces out. He runs straight into the sea and dives in headfirst. He comes back out a few seconds later and my jaw nearly hits the sand.
This is so unfair.
There is nothing average about this man. His body is already perfect, but now? Under the sunset? It’s unfair. The light hits his chest, his shoulders, the lines on his stomach… everything looks sharper, almost like it’s fake.
He drags his hands through his hair, pushing it back slowly, shaking the water out of his eyes. I pause at the edge, just letting the water touch my feet. It’s cooler than I expected.
I cross my arms, acting unbothered. I could pretend I’m not dying to join him. I could hold this pose forever.
"Rava," Gio shouts from the waves, "don’t be a little bitch."
I smirk, but stay still. "I’m appreciating the view."
He comes way too close.
"If you dunk me, I swear I’m not—"
Before I even finish, he whips his head and shakes his hair out all over me. For a second I literally see Jesus. "What is wrong with the Fontana family?" I splutter. "You and Lorenzo have this deep need to soak me at every opportunity."
Gio looks up at me, while his fingers still mess with the sand beneath his feet, eyes locked on mine.
"That sounded so dirty, Ravioli," he says.
I kick water at him. "I mean it, literally. He did the exact same thing in the pool the other day."
He laughs.
"Aw, poor Weston, under attack from the Fontanas. What should we do?" I don’t even get to laugh back. His hand comes up out of the water. He grabs my wrist. Before I can stop him, his wet, strong hand yanks me forward.
My feet lose the sand, and I crash into the sea with a gasp, water exploding up around my shoulders, soaking my face, my hair, my everything.
"Shit, fuck, you asshole!" I yell, blinking salt out of my eyes.
I’m half-blind from the first baptism, and before I can even breathe, he dunks me again.
The wave hits us hard and throws him right into me. I swear to God, I almost make out with his dick underwater.
The water settles. We break the surface, both of us coughing and laughing. "You didn’t have to drag me in, you idiot!"
He swims a little closer, lazy strokes through the crystal. "You don’t have to act like you hate me, Ravioli. Your dad’s not here. No one is. We’re in another fucking country."
The words hit harder than the wave that crashes over me. Jesus.
I’m not used to agreeing with Gio.
That’s never been our thing. Our thing is always snapping at each other, rolling our eyes, competing over who can be more annoying.
And now he says shit like that and I actually agree. I hate that he’s right. I hate that I like that he’s right.
I glare. "You’ve got a pretty big opinion of yourself."
He tilts his head, that dangerous smile returning. "If I didn’t," he leans in, "you wouldn’t have moaned so fucking hard last night in the shower."
My jaw drops. "You—" I start to say, but he’s too close. So I shove him. Hard. He stumbles back into the water, laughing, and I dive after him, tackling him under the surface, and when we both come up, I grab his face and kiss him.
His hands go straight to my hips, gripping tight as he kisses me back with everything he has. He bites my lower lip. I gasp into his mouth.
I kiss him the way I want to in Italy and can’t. Our tongues are literally fighting. My hand goes to the back of his head and I accidentally yank his hair a little too hard.
I didn’t mean to. Okay, I did. A little.
What do you want from me? I’m repressed.
His fingers dig into my waist under the water, pulling me even closer.
We laugh. We wrestle. We kiss again.
For once, I don’t care who I’m supposed to be. I’m not the "good son," not the "innocent one", not the future teacher with the decent life plan.
I’m just Rava. Rava with Gio. But Gio suddenly stiffens.
He blinks past me, up toward the rocks.
"What?" I whisper. He doesn’t answer right away. He lowers me back into the water.
"Rava, don’t look," he mutters, his lips still brushing mine. "But we’ve got company. From the meeting."
"What?" I glance up without thinking.
Oh, fuck. Standing right above us, at the edge of the cliff, is someone we know. One of the old men from the table today. The one with the beige polo shirt and the bald spot.
Fucking hell. Instinctively, I turn to look again.
"Don’t, don’t move like that," he hisses. "Slow. We’re going under that rock. Now."
Adrenaline kicks in. That’s it. They’re going to kill us.
This man is gonna go back, sit his overpriced espresso down and be like, "Hey guys, funny story, just saw Fontana’s son and Weston’s son making out in the ocean!"
My dad will just faint and Gio’s family will start planning a funeral while we’re still alive. This is my last good moment. Of course the universe sends some random business guy as a witness.
I didn’t even got to find out what his dick feels like.
I could scream. We’re going down for this, and I didn’t even get the full experience. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as Gio takes my wrist, gently this time.
Not yanking like before. Guiding. The sunlight disappears as we slide under the cliff’s overhang.
It’s dark, and just barely enough to cover us. Gio presses his back gently against the rock, as far in as he can go, and pulls me with him.
He’s trying not to make a single wave give us away. He keeps his eyes up, checking if that guy is still there. I keep my eyes not where they should be. I’m glued to his chest.
He lifts his arms to grab the top edge of the rock and push us both further in, using his strength to wedge us into the safest spot possible.
I’m looking at his hands like a pervert. Those big forearms. His veins popping under wet skin. The water dripping down from his wrists.
I feel disgusting. We’re hiding for our lives in a rock crevice like illegal crabs, and I’m down here staring at Gio Fontana’s hands like a thirsty animal.
But I can’t help it. They’re huge. Too big for my sanity.
I open my mouth to whisper something, but Gio turns and shuts me up. His hand covers my lips. His other hand is at my waist, holding me still against him, my thighs brushing his under the surface.
My skin is hypersensitive. He turns his head slowly, just enough to face me. He lets his hand fall gently, away from my mouth.
I look at him, smiling. "You’re awful."
"You’re beautiful."
My head drops instantly. God, sometimes I hate being a guy. Mostly because right now I have a massive, borderline-agonizing boner. One of those that actually hurt, and there is absolutely zero chance of hiding it. None.
My body doesn’t just betray me, it announces it. I want to sink to the bottom and let the fish have me.
And the more I try to back up, the more the water pushes us together, so now I’m basically grinding on him like the neediest slut Spain has ever seen. His eyes drop for just a second, and he smirks.
His hand slides lower. Lower. Then it disappears into the water. And finds its way inside my swimsuit.
I make a sound. Tiny. Muffled by my own bitten-down moan. His fingers curl around my dick, slowly, even though someone is still standing just above us.
I grab his shoulders, my nails digging into his wet skin. I’m supposed to be terrified. Someone could look down and see us. We could get ourselves in such big trouble.
But I don’t care. What is wrong with me?
I used to be composed and respectable. I don’t know what kind of spell this man casts on me, but I swear to God, I didn’t use to be this horny.
Not like this.
But now it’s like my brain is permanently broken.
He breathes near my neck and I’m ready to drop to my knees in public. It’s like he transfers his feral sex demon energy into me and now I’m just infected. His hand moves under the water.
Back and forth, back and forth.
My forehead drops to his collarbone. I try to stay quiet. Try.
"Still pretending you hate me?" he whispers.