Chapter 6 Constantine #2
When I’d spotted her in the bar, I’d noticed the exact same thing.
An unbelievably beautiful woman anchored to a tombstone of grief.
She wore a little black dress with pink and blue seashell ornaments on the straps, a delicate addition of color to her dark silhouette.
She sat with a strong posture, but she lacked the confidence a woman of her caliber should possess.
It was a dichotomy that I couldn’t understand.
She could hold my gaze when others would blink or look away, but when another woman approached to make a pass, she accepted defeat.
Looked away and asked for the check so she could forget our stare had ever happened.
I didn’t know what had happened to her—but I knew something had.
At the end of the road to the right was the Greek theatre, so I took her there to see what the Greeks had built when they conquered the island, before the Carthaginians conquered them, and then the Romans conquered them.
That’s all history was—a series of conquests.
It was small, nothing compared to the Colosseum in Rome, but she seemed to enjoy it. Pulled out a high-end camera from her bag and snapped a couple photos, not of people or specific subjects, but angled shots, flowers, sometimes a broken piece of stone.
When we finished there, I took her to La Focaccia, a sandwich shop that was as popular with the locals as the tourists. With premium Italian meats like mortadella and capicola, along with pistachio pesto and burrata, it was always a stop on my list when I was in town.
“Those are big-ass sandwiches.” She watched a customer walk away with the square piece of bread covered in waxed paper. For someone of her size, the sandwich would take up two of her hands.
“Want to split one?”
“I mean . . . if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Uh . . .” She stared at the menu through the crowd of people. “You’re the expert here.”
I smirked then moved through the cluster of customers waiting for their sandwiches, hearing the high-energy American music over their speakers.
“Constantine!” Umberto stopped making his sandwich to raise his gloved hands in the air.
Raphael and Angelo both released shouts of excited surprise. “About time you show that ugly face around here,” Raphael said.
Umberto ripped off his gloves, then came over to fist-bump me across the counter. “This your first stop?”
“You know you guys are the best,” I said over the music.
All three of them made another shout to the music, the two in the back still working and dancing at the same time. La Focaccia was always a fun time, the guys in a good mood and entertaining the tourists.
“The usual?” Umberto asked.
“Yep.”
He quickly glanced behind me to where Aurelia stood behind my shoulder. “And your friend?” He waggled his eyebrows.
I smirked. “We’re going to share.”
“Ooh . . .” He turned back to the boys. “They’re gonna share a sandwich. Isn’t that cute?”
I pulled out my wallet to grab my credit card.
“No, no, no.” He waved the card away. “You know better than that, Constantine.”
“Come on, you never let me pay.”
“Your family never charges us when we stop by Rosticceria Da Cristina.”
“But I don’t work there or own it.”
He continued to wave the card away like it was bewitched with a curse. “Con, your money is no good here. Stop it.”
I sighed before I returned the card to my wallet. A couple minutes later, I took the sandwich, and Aurelia and I walked away from the crowd. There was an empty park bench farther down the curve of the road, so I took a seat and held out the sandwich so she could have the first bite.
“What have we got here?” she asked, taking the sandwich with both hands.
“Pistachio mortadella, stracciatella, pistachio pesto . . .”
She eyed the sandwich and tried to figure out her plan of attack before she went for the corner and took a small bite, missing pretty much all the good stuff.
“You can do better than that.”
She took another bite, getting the meat and the cheese, and covered her mouth as she chewed. She nodded as she experienced the flavors.
I held the sandwich with a single hand and took a massive bite out of it.
When she finally finished her bite, she lowered her hand. “Damn, that’s good.”
We shared the sandwich back and forth, each taking a bite until there was nothing left but crumbs on the waxed paper.
“So you really know everyone around here.” She sat with her legs crossed, the slit in her long dress exposing her beautiful tanned skin, the definition in her thighs and calves apparent.
“Yep.” For better or worse.
“That’s cute.” She studied the street again, looking like a subject that belonged in front of the lens of her camera. “Anything else on our list?”
“You haven’t experienced Taormina until you’ve had a cannoli.”
“I actually had one when we first got here.”
We as in her and Alex? Or we as in her and someone else? “But have you been to La Pignolata?”
“No, never heard of it.”
“Then you haven’t had a cannoli. Come on.” I left the bench and tossed the waxed paper and napkins in the garbage.
“Wow, this is one hell of a tour. I’ll have to leave you a nice tip.” When we returned to the street, she gently came into my side, giving me a playful bump as she smiled.
I didn’t bump her back, not when the slightest touch from my size could make her trip and fall. Instead, I moved my hand to her ass and squeezed it before I gave it a playful smack. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
I sat across from her outside the small café, watching her eat a massive cannoli with cream spilling out on either side of the opening. And of course, all I could think about was sticking my dick in her mouth.
Her dress was low cut in the front and showed the slight swell of her tits, and when she took a bite, a piece of the shell broke off with the cream and landed right on the exposed skin of her left tit.
She naturally stuck out her chest to look down at it before she brushed her hair behind her shoulder. With the cannoli in one hand, she used her other to wipe up the cream and suck it off her fingers. Then she ate the piece of shell that had broken off.
I was so fucking hard that I couldn’t stand. Not when people would see my fat dick and I’d get a serious head rush from the loss of blood.
She must have felt the heat of my stare, because her eyes met mine as she sucked more cream off her finger. A sudden surge of confidence filled her, and she held my gaze as she took another bite of her cannoli, getting cream all over her mouth and swiping it away with her tongue.
Lord have mercy . . .
I’d watched women eat cannoli before, but it had never turned into a sex show like this.
She really should consider doing OnlyFans.
She returned the second half of the cannoli back to the paper basket it had come in. “You weren’t kidding.”
I was so uncomfortable I just wanted to adjust my jeans, but there was no way I could do it without making it obvious that my dick wanted to break my zipper.
Aurelia already knew, based on the way she eye fucked me, but other people were around, including Hector, my old classmate, who stood in the window.
And he didn’t need to know how much this woman turned me on.
She cleaned her fingers with the napkin before she went inside and dumped her trash in the bin. But then she went to the counter and ordered another, clearly asking for it to go, based on the container they gave to her.
My pants were about to break.
She came back to the table and sauntered toward me, her hand moving to my shoulder and grazing over the muscles of my arm and chest. Her perfume hit me, as well as the scent of sunscreen.
Her ass was right next to my shoulder. “Can I eat this in your room?” She slid her fingers up my neck, and her thumb brushed my bottom lip as she teased me.
I fucking loved to be teased. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
The blackout curtains were closed when we entered my suite, but some streaks of sunlight poked through. Clothes were dropped, shoes kicked away, and I looked at her in her little pink thong and nearly growled.
Her lithe core showed the muscles of her abs, her tits were full and perky, big for her slender frame, and her legs .
. . her legs drove me fucking mad. I slid my hand into the playground of her hair, and I fisted it as I kissed her, my other arm tugging her into me as I bent my neck to feel her lips.
The second I had her, a heat flushed through me and lit every nerve on fire.
I was aware of my own heartbeat, aware of the way it pounded in my chest like it might break my ribs.
Sex was arousing, but generally soothing and calming.
However, with her, it gave me the same rush of adrenaline as when I put someone in the grave.
I was about to throw her on the bed, but she beat me to it.
She guided me back, then shoved me.
Fuck me.
I was propped up slightly on the pillows at the headboard, my dick hard against my stomach, and I watched her take the cannoli from the package and saunter toward the bed.
Oh sweet mother of God.
She positioned herself between my thighs, lying on her stomach, and slowly dragged her finger through the cream on one side of the opening, then popped it into her mouth to taste it.
My dick twitched harder than a baseball bat about to hit a home run.
Then she cracked the shell, crumbs sprinkling into my lap, the ricotta filling coming free. Using her fingers as a spoon, she scooped it, then spread it up my length, getting the creamy mixture against my skin too. It was cold to the touch but ignited me like a match to gasoline.
She slowly worked to coat my entire dick with the dessert, her eyes seductive and confident, the version of her that only emerged under the right conditions.
When she had enough drinks to take the edge off, when she stopped thinking about who she was and just lived in the moment.
When she didn’t have the chance to second-guess herself.
When she didn’t have to question whether she belonged .
. . or she should give her spot to someone else.
She set the shell aside, then stuck out her tongue and grabbed the base of my dick—like my cock was a lollipop.
She dragged her tongue up, caught the cream in her mouth, and when she made it to the top, she licked the dollop she left there and swallowed it like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
I propped my arm underneath the back of my head and dug my fingers into her hair to keep the strands from her face, watching her eat the white cream off my dick, taking her time like she was doing this for herself as well as for me.
She flattened her tongue and sheathed me with her mouth, the cream down my base catching on the sides of her lips as she moved down as far as she could go, maybe going a little too far, because she came back up and took a deep breath as if she needed to recover from the strain.
When she went down again, she was prepared for the hit to the back of her throat, and she was able to come back up and then lick another drop of cream from the top of my head, fulfilling a fantasy I didn’t even know I had until now.
My fingers deepened into the curtain of dark hair, my hands cupping her face. “Attagirl.”
When all the cream had been licked away, it turned into a straight blow job, but I didn’t make it past the first minute before I released into that warm mouth.
And she drank every drop like it was just as sweet.