Chapter 4
T o say Giuliana knocks me off balance is an understatement. I’m used to women. Hell, I spend a lot of time with women—mostly in a state of undress—as the recent articles can attest. But, I realize in rising alarm, precious little of that time consists of talking.
I’m sure some of the women I’m acquainted with must be smart with sparkling wits, but I can’t speak to it. Not when the conversations we share lie in the sway of hips and the seductive curl of a smile. They want something from me and they know how to get it. It’s a mutual respect of desire.
Giuliana has far less guile. I don’t want to say she isn’t like the other women because that’s condescending. But pretending to be Matteo has me wishing I was a better person. Had I been back home, my mouth would’ve sampled the divot of her dimple by this point. I’d be halfway drunk on straight spirits and her kisses—though I’m not sure she’d allow it. This lady takes no prisoners. Instead, she pulls over outside a little store and I follow like a lost puppy.
“What are we doing here?”
Giuliana gives me a look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised with an unsaid ‘What did I say about questions?’ before strutting into the shop like she owns it.
“Giuliana?” The cashier asks, confused. Eyes darting between us and the ruined bag dangling from her fingertips, he purses his mouth.
“ Mi è caduta la bottiglia. Posso avere dell'altro vino rosso ?” she asks.
The man springs to action, grabbing a clear bottle from under the counter and turning to the wall behind him—lined with tapped casks. Maroon liquid drains into the bottle and swirls around the inside.
“What is this place?”
Innocuous from the street, I’d have assumed it was a bar except there’s nowhere to sit and drink.
“It’s called vino sfuso. You bring in your own container and they fill it with local wine priced by quantity. Unfortunately, my bottle broke.” It’s so pointed I can feel her words pierce my skin. “Dario is kind enough to give me one of their bottles instead since I’m a regular customer.”
Dario perks up at the mention of his name and gives her a sheepish smile, his cheeks staining as red as the wine being poured. The bottle clinks as he sets it down on the counter and rings her up for a second time today, I assume.
“So, you said something about making it up to me?”
“I did…” Please don’t let this come back to bite me.
“You can start here. I had dinner plans and those got thrown out, so we get to rebuild them together.”
I pull out my card and hold it out to Dario, only for Giuliana to give me a little “Uh, uh. Cash only for totals under ten euros.”
My fingers are clumsy as I fumble to pull out the money and pay. Fucking Italy and no one wanting to take credit cards for small purchases. Eventually, I manage, and Giuliana greets Dario with a cheerful little “ciao,” before she struts out the way she came and sits her delectable ass back on the Vespa seat.
“Where to next?”
“Down the street to the salumeria. I’ll grab us a few things and then we’ll head to one of my favorite spots.”
And that’s how we end up on a tiny, precarious set of stairs winding down beside the aqueduct bridge. The ravine below looms far too close. Giuliana walks without fear, a new bag of goods clutched in her hand—including different kinds of alcohol and food items. She even talked a shop owner into giving us dinnerware for our impromptu picnic.
“Are you sure about this? Wouldn’t it be better to be on the bridge rather than beneath it?” Now might be a good time to tell her heights aren’t my favorite. I try to forget the moment on the rooftop of my party a few nights ago.
“Matteo… trust me. Up there, it’s tourists taking pictures, far too busy. Down here, we can take in the ravine—admire the old ruins and the city on the other side.”
She ignores my grumpy noises behind her, forging on until the stairs turn into a metal walkway connecting us to the bottom half of the aqueduct. Giant arches rise above us. Trees and rock slope up on either side of the ravine, and I follow her to the center.
“Are you sure we won’t get in trouble for this?”
“No offense, but based on your driving, you don’t come across like the kind of guy that worries about trouble.”
Mouth gaping as I sputter, I can’t help but admit she’s right. Giuliana sinks onto the stone walkway and unloads our feast. There’s no choice but to join her, I suppose. Tummy gurgling in desperate hunger, I settle down beside her, and she hands me a drink she’s poured into our borrowed glasses. Far be it for me to turn down a drink, but one mixed on a bridge is a little suspect.
“It’s to open up the palate and whet your appetite,” she explains, taking a sip of her own. The bright orange liquid is a compliment to the fiery sunset lighting up the horizon. We sit side-by-side, staring up at Gravina and her grandeur, and for the first time I can remember, I don’t have the urge to outrun my own mind.
The anxiety abates for now. There’s a novelty to sitting down for a meal with someone instead of being alone and forcing myself to soak up some of the night before. The new experience sends a fizz of something I can’t name to my insides. Yeah, I’ve heard the term butterflies, but can they apply to a situation as a whole and not just the rush of desire I’m used to?
I take a hefty swig, a bitter taste coating my tongue. Despite trying to stay cool, my face twists in disgust, and she laughs at my dismay.
“It’s an acquired taste. If you’d prefer, I can pour you some of the wine?” The unlabeled bottle from the vino sfuso dangles from her fingers and I accept with gratitude.
“I am sorry to have disrupted your day,” I say as she fills my glass, a sheepish smile punctuating my apology.
“And almost killing me?” Rolling her eyes, the answering smile she gives is radiant.
“ And almost killing you. It won’t happen again.” I solemnly cross my fingertip over my heart.
“Of course not. You’re not driving that thing again until you’ve learned how.”
Giuliana picks up the keyring from her side and dangles them. The metal clinks together before she closes the keys into her fist and tucks them into her pocket.
Since the shock of our initial meeting, I’ve had time to get a better look at her. And what I see sends a heavy feeling into the pit of my stomach. Giuliana is arresting. Long lashes over big brown eyes that would be demure if not for the wicked glint in them when she teases. Her dark hair is thick and slightly windblown from our ride. The bite of the breeze and the tease of alcohol give her cheeks the slightest blush.
If I were a better man, my assessment would stop there, but I’m not. I note the way she fills out her jeans, and the dip of her soft waist where I’d love to span my hands again. This time I want to trail my fingertips along her sides and see if she’s ticklish.
Two parts of me are at war. Now, it’s not the voice inside my head drowning out reason—it’s the spiral of desire snaking down and settling low in my abdomen. I want her, but perhaps, for a change, I want to know her a little too. If I’m going to turn over a new leaf, I might as well start here. So, I figure I’ll enjoy whatever I can get.
Gathering the bits she’s procured along the way, Giuliana puts together a few helpings of bruschetta. I pop a piece of bread topped with tomato, cheese, and balsamic into my mouth in one bite—starved.
“You Americans always get the name wrong. The ‘ch’ in bruschetta doesn’t make the same sound in Italian. There is no ‘sh’ sound. It’s ‘ SK .’”
I only raise my eyebrows, urging her to say it again, enjoying the warm tone of her voice—like daylight… but the kind that makes your body lazy and turns your skin a shade darker without the hurt.
“Broo-sketta,” she emphasizes.
I repeat and she gives an almost proud nod, as if it’s her sole duty to inform ignorant Americans of their faux pas. More items emerge from the bag, and soon I sample the second most delicious thing I’ve tried since I arrived in Italy. Although the prosciutto crudo is scrumptious, it doesn’t quite compare to the pizza I tried. She gets even more determined when I tell her about my pizza Napoletana experience.
“Local food is as good as what you can find in the cities. Even better because it is so fresh, sourced from farms in the area. You tourists always choose the dishes closest to your American fare and miss out on a proper taste of Italy.” She bites into her own delectable morsel of cured meat and cheese, her expression darkening as irritation sinks between her brows.
“Are you saying real Italian pizza isn’t good?” I challenge, guessing it’ll get a rise out of her.
“Of course, I am not saying that,” she scoffs, “only, you miss out when you limit yourself.”
“Well, trust me when I say I’m not missing out right now.” My voice drops slightly, trying to convey how diverting I find her company.
“It’s just a taste. Pace yourself.”
I wonder if she’s aware of the effect she has. Probably—she seems comfortable in herself, not fazed by me at all. My glass of wine stays topped up and between the two of us, we drain the bottle. Throughout it all, she talks to me about the history of the aqueduct and the ancient Roman influence on the city. We snack and drink, and I soak up her words like parched earth enjoys the rain. It’s refreshing to see someone so at home in their skin.
I like to talk a good game, and my swagger is a maintained front to see me through my daily interactions… but Giuliana carries herself like someone who knows their place in the world and has worked to get there. I think again about our handshake, the calluses on the pads beneath her fingers.
“What brings you to Italy?” she asks, fist tucked under her chin as she leans her elbow on one of her knees.
“I’m here to find my purpose and discover more about my roots in the area. Vacationing in between.” I shrug, unsure how to be concise about being here to secure my future by fucking over someone else.
“Ah, so nothing big?”
Tilting her head, she examines me and gives me a little smile. What can I say? Coming here to find my path is the biggest step I’ve taken in my whole life. But things with her are light and easy, so I respond with a smile and a shrug, trying not to dwell on how big this contract thing might be. Focusing on her instead…
God , I haven’t had such an enjoyable conversation in quite a while.
“It does make sense then, why your name is Matteo.”
“And why I look like a Roman god?” I say it with a cheeky smile and my insides warm up when she laughs.
“And why your ego is as awful as your driving. All that Italian machismo pumping through your veins along with the marinara.”
“You’ve got me pinned. Half Italian, half toxic.” Fully overwhelmed by how much I want to touch you.
I lift my wine glass and she clinks hers against mine in response, drinking to what is a true statement. There’s something about the fresh night air. Early summer floats on the wind and stirs the ends of her hair, sending her scent swirling around me. The heady taste of good Italian wine and the lingering essence of food feeds my soul. It makes me feel like I can be better than I’ve been, better than everyone back home believes me to be. Because I want to be that man—I want my confidence to be real, my body to be honed by work, and my mind to be quiet.
Our plates are nearly empty, our glasses of wine dangerously low, but my chest aches with the prospect of our parting.
“Tell me about yourself. Do you have any deep dark secrets? A boyfriend? A nickname only certain people get to call you?” I ask, eager for whatever bits she deigns to share before the night’s over.
She shakes her head at me. “No. No boyfriend. No nicknames. I don’t like them very much. It’s always been Giuliana.”
I know then, at least for the rest of the night, I’m going to try and squeeze in at least one nickname or endearment—even if it’s to push her buttons and see if I can get her fiery again. Like she’d been when we almost collided. She carries on though, unaware of my plans.
“My job has been killing me—financials getting in the way—and although it’s necessary, the numbers are soul-sucking. I needed a break, so I thought I’d treat myself to some downtime before things pick up at work. Gravina is a world away from my troubles, but unfortunately, tonight is my last night here. I figured I’d bend my own rules and take a chance on a man who looked as lost as I felt.” A sad sigh leaves her and there’s an air of something different. The hollows beneath her eyes are shadowed and when she isn’t smiling or laughing, her expression settles into something weary.
Swirling the last bits of wine in her glass, she stares at the liquid as if it might provide her with something she needs.
“Lot of pressure?”
“ Oh ”—she gives a dry chuckle—“too much. But I never shy away from a challenge.” Her mouth is a resolute line, softening only when she lifts the tiny whirlpool in her glass to her lips and swallows.
“And I’ve run from almost every single one of mine. Totally opposite, you and I.”
I lighten the conversation, attempting some self-deprecation to make her smile—which works. Sort of. It’s a wry smile, one that makes me reach both hands out to touch the one she has resting on her crossed knee.
I turn her hand so it rests palm up on my own, tracing the lines with my fingertips—skimming over the rough edges of her skin and the lifeline carved deep into her skin.
“You wear hard work on your hands.” I glance up to check Giuliana’s reaction only to see her lids lowering, absorbed in our touch. “And walk like you command the earth. As if it will mold itself to your step.” I tease my touch against her skin, and she curls her fingers into her palm to stop my light touching.
“My maternal grandmother is English and always hated how my hands looked and felt. She thought it was ‘unladylike and uncouth.’” Her grip tightens into a fist, and I lift it to my lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles and coaxing her fingers open again to thread between my own.
“Is that why your English is so good? Your grandmother?” I ask and she nods, stuck somewhere in her mind, so I keep talking. “Personally, I think it shows strength and perseverance. I think there’s something beautiful in a physical manifestation of effort.”
She squeezes my hand in hers, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it from her face. I know what it feels like to believe the worst in yourself. Perhaps she experiences that to some degree.
“Yes, she stayed with us for a few years when I was younger, around the time my mother—” She breaks off and I wonder what it is that taints those spiced rum eyes with sadness. “—and we see her every Christmas. She insisted on us learning. And about my hands—you’re sweet for saying so, but you don’t have to work so hard to give me a compliment.”
“No one has ever accused me of working hard in any capacity but one.” My voice is husky—mind muddied by the food, the drink, and her. I let the insinuation linger, knowing I’m being forward while not having the luxury of my reputation to do the work for me. New York is soulless, but at least the name Palmer gives me a head start there.
“And you feel the need to prove yourself to me?” Her gaze softens, heat filling the space where our skin touches.
“You don’t seem like the kind of woman who is easily fooled. My words wouldn’t be enough, I fear.”
There’s precious little space between us, our bodies canted toward each other. It’s not until she takes a deep breath and it tickles my cheek that I take in the closeness. I wait, perched on the edge of something desperate.
Initiating these kinds of affairs isn’t new, but I’ve never felt the need for it this keenly. Something about her calls out to me. It’s as if she won’t merely dull the demon within me but instead bring it to heel. Selfishly, I try to convince myself she might benefit from our encounter as well. Giuliana looks stressed when she isn’t joking; she said she was here for a break. And I am the king of distractions.
Night swallows Gravina and the glittering lights within the buildings above us lend an intimacy to the air that hadn’t been as evident at sunset.
I wait, watching as she mulls it over, hoping beyond what I’ve allowed myself for a long time for this moment with her.
“Actions speak louder than words, after all,” Giuliana whispers and we close the distance between us until our lips meet in a tentative kiss.
Although I want nothing more than to devour her, I keep my attention light to enjoy the tart taste of her mouth. Giuliana deepens the connection, threading her hand into my hair as the kiss turns greedy. I can’t say how much time passes when my heartbeat is too frantic to count and she’s pulled me so deep into her orbit I can think of nothing but her.
“Matteo?” Giuliana whispers against the shell of my ear.
And god, if that doesn’t make me fucking clench my jaw, muscle there jumping with the strain. I have to remind myself not to tighten my hand, not when hers is within my grasp and my other cradles her cheek. Is it a denial? An invitation?
“I don’t have a place to go for the night yet…” Had the mood been anything but hungry, my statement would have been innocuous. But our appetites aren’t sated yet.
“I have one for tonight. But I leave for home tomorrow,” she warns and stands, tugging me up with her. We make quick work of our meal, tucked back into her bag. The steps are harder to find this time.
I hold onto her free hand as she leads me toward the Vespa.
Settling my body around hers this time is different. The smoldering ember from earlier turns to flames licking at me, driving me to distraction. She tucks away the kickstand so my shaky leg is the only thing keeping us upright. The keys slot into place as my mouth finds the sensitive skin at her neck and I trail a blaze of kisses down the side. Giuliana sucks in a gasp that stretches her ribcage, its sharpness evident in my arms. The bike ignites, rumbling beneath us. My fingers skim over her soft stomach—thumb tracing the underside of her breast.
“Matteo.” It’s a warning. It’s a plea.
I heed her. For now.
I wrap my fingers around her hand instead, feeling her turning the throttle. I lift my leg and she sends us surging down the street. Giuliana gathers herself enough for me to go back to my exploration, and the bike wobbles a little when my thumb finds the hardened tip of her nipple straining through the thin fabric of her shirt.
“ Ti ammazzo ,” she growls, her tone irritated, and I know I’m in trouble. But I can’t quite bring myself to care, not when I can feel how tight she’s wound.
The need to have her, to sample her and feel her body relax, is a physical ache. I’ll be sure she gets to let go. Tonight, I want to give her pleasure. She’s already helped me escape, helped me forget, without me having to sink into her body. I’ll repay that kindness.
The Vespa winds through town—Gravina much quieter now. The air blows cooler and fraught with what sizzles between us. We pull over outside of town, a small place that looks more like a home than a hotel but could be an Airbnb. I’m beyond caring. It’s doubtful I could even scrounge up questions with my cock pressed to the generous curve of her ass.
We stumble from the bike, mouths on each other as soon as our feet are on solid ground. Feasting on her lips, I gather her close. Giuliana winds her arms around my neck. Deft fingers weave into my dark curls, devouring me with as much intent. She walks me backward until my back hits the wooden door with a light thud. Her hands snake down my body as she tries to extricate herself, pushing against my chest for me to release her.
The growl coming out of my throat when she breaks our kiss is shameful—insatiable.
“Keys. I’m trying to get inside.” It’s a frustrated grumble as she digs through her jean pockets for a keyring—upset when she remembers it’s still in the bag dangling from the handlebars.
Inside. Inside is good.
“They’re in my bag,” she pouts.
I eat up the distance between the door and the bike with angry strides, back at her side between the span of a few breaths.She rifles through the bag and I’ve never been happier to hear the jingle of metal clinking.
Unlocking the door is taking too long and I poise myself behind her. Pulling her body flush with mine, the hardness in my jeans presses flush against the dip of her lower back.
“Not fair,” Giuliana complains, but the key turns and the door swings open.
“I don’t play fair. Not with this.” It’s a rough whisper against her neck. Body aching with desire, I pack away the little something in my mind that feels suspiciously like a conscience.
Then we’re inside, and Giuliana’s leading me toward a bedroom. The windows are cracked open, curtains dancing with the wind. Kicking off my jeans, Giuliana tugs at her shirt in between kisses. The fabric of our clothes joins in a pool on the floor until we make it down to our underwear, and I can’t hold back any longer.
Pulling her tight against my body, my hands cup the voluptuous curve of her ass as I walk her backward to the bed. A gentle push and she’s splayed out in front of me. Standing between her legs, I watch as she’s bathed in silver and starlight—her hair fanned out around her and her breathing ragged. God, she looks fucking phenomenal.
Her breathless laugh lets me know I’ve said it out loud and I shuck my underwear before I sink down to my knees at the edge of the bed.
“What? What are you—?” is all she manages before my lips find the soft flesh of her thigh. Holding the outside of her legs, I urge her hips up to ease her underwear off.
“Matteo?”
“Tell me to stop now, gorgeous, and I will,” I command as I pull the fabric down her legs and kiss my way back up, goosebumps rising on her skin in response. She doesn’t protest the endearment, rather my actions.
“I don’t want you to stop. I want this. I want you. But you don’t have to… I know guys don’t really like?—”
“Giuliana, the next time you open your mouth better be because you’re moaning my name.”
Slotting my mouth over her heat, she arches up against the bed at the contact. My hand presses into her belly—holding her in place as I lick, and suck, and savor. The taste of her essence is slick and sweet, and I wait until she can’t keep still before I test her.
Finger sinking in with ease, Giuliana hisses and moans at the friction.
“So hot,” I say, sucking on her clit until I feel her relax around me. And then I add a second finger, curling them up to rub against the textured wall deep within.
“You’re so tight.” It’s little more than a moan against her thigh, my cock weeping with want for her. If I touch myself now, it’ll be over. I’ll spill all over myself like an untried teenager.
No one has driven me higher, pushing me closer to the brink without even laying a finger on me. If Giuliana wrapped…
I grunt at the thought, my hips jerking.
No. Focus. Focus on her first.
“Matteo…” It’s reedy, almost a whine, and she rocks her hips so my fingers sink deeper inside of her.
“Yes, beautiful?”
Giuliana reaches her hand down and her fingers snake through my hair, playing with the springy curls. My thumb brushes against her clit and her hand tightens in my hair.
“ More .”
There’s nothing to do but obey. I stroke and tease and feel every inch of her quiver. Thick thighs tighten around my head as she chases the high, on the precipice of falling. And then she does moan my name, a guttural, almost pained sound as she crests. Clenching around me, her body’s rhythm strong, she pulls me in deeper before she finally melts.
Giuliana’s body goes lax save for a few twitches when I kiss her—when my tongue laps up the proof of her desire. I tug my fingers from her wet walls. Fingers coated in her essence, I wrap them around my cock and squeeze—not trusting myself to move. Not until I’m sure she’s pleased with me. Not until I’ve earned it.
Her breath shudders out of her with a sigh, and she lifts up onto her elbow to look at me—her eyes glassy and half-lidded. Fuck. Staring up at her from my knees feels like a high I’ve never reached before. A giggle passes her lips before she flops back down. “I feel like I don’t have any bones. That was… so good.”
Rising up, I stare down at her dopey little smile. She looks as relaxed as I hoped she’d be. I stalk onto the bed, kneeling between her spread legs, and press my lips to the pulse at her neck. “Oh, Giuliana, that was just an aperitivo. I was preparing my palate and whetting my appetite. Now the real feast begins.”