Chapter 42 Elisa
Elisa
“And then?”
“And then, this happens,” he murmurs, his mouth against mine.
Michael’s kisses have become something I can’t do without, after oxygen and water. Or maybe even before oxygen and water.
When Michael kisses, he kisses with his whole body, and I feel it everywhere.
Tonight I realized how he really does have the ability to attract every female being within a mile radius.
In Belvedere, it was no contest, but while we were in line for the schiacciata, I noticed how all the women, young and old, single and taken, did nothing but glance at him on the sly.
I even caught someone sneaking a photo of him and then—I swear—even a poodle with a pink bow and a rhinestone collar stopped to sniff him and cling to his leg.
You don’t see many men as handsome as he is, and at the risk of appearing superficial and vain, being the one on his arm did quite a bit for my confidence. I even enjoyed catching a few envious glances.
I don’t think I’ve ever been envied by anyone in my life, and for once I also feel worthy.
I’m dressed like a goddess—Giada pulled out a dress she bought at an haute couture fair, which she got because, she said, “You never know and, in any case, it was such a good deal.” I feel better than I have in years, and I’m with a spectacular man who only has eyes for me.
Am I superficial? Very well, then, I’m superficial.
“It seems like my hypothetical evening is going pretty well,” I laugh.
“Mine too.”
“I’m starting to wonder what Michael and Elisa will do next . . . You interrupted the story just when it was getting good.”
“You’re about to find out.”
If Michael were drafted into the army, he would be a sharpshooter. Every shot, a hit.
In the hottest ten minutes in history, with several breaks along the way to kiss where we had the chance, we reached one of the most central hotels in the city, a stone’s throw from the Duomo.
Lost as I am in my fantasies, I absentmindedly catch the words “panoramic suite” at check-in before we step inside the elevator.
And elevators, as we know, have that strange something that releases inhibitory brakes.
Luckily the ride is short; otherwise, we wouldn’t have made it to the room, and it would have been a shame because it is the room.
It’s not just one of those magazine-perfect rooms—it’s more unique than that. “Come have a look,” Michael says, throwing open the French windows.
To say it’s jaw-dropping is an understatement: The terrace directly overlooks the cupola of the Duomo and Giotto’s bell tower.
They’re so close, I could touch them, plus there’s a full Jacuzzi, with wine chilling in an ice bucket and two glasses, all in the glow of an outdoor fireplace.
Now I understand the meaning of “panoramic suite.”
“You. Are. Insane,” I mutter. Lost for better words.
“Too much?”
“Is there a support group for returning to reality after this?”
“I don’t know, but for tonight, it’s all just for the two of us.” Michael holds me, giving me another of his dizzying kisses. “You and me, no interruptions, no setbacks.”
“Let me warn you: You’ll have to work pretty hard to distract me from all this.”
“I can’t wait.” He lowers my zipper, insinuating his hands under my dress, while I take off his jacket and immediately move on to the buttons of his shirt. “Waiting a week was torture, but it was worth it.”
Reluctantly, but in a flash of lucidity, I stop him. “Give me a second, I’ll be right there.”
I fly into the bathroom to clean myself up. Toothpaste, mouthwash, and bidet. Up to this point everything has been perfect. I want it to continue to be.
I open the kit with the courtesy toothbrush and brush with the same precision I would for the dentist.
After I use the toilet, I’m about to move on to the bidet, when I notice a red stain on the toilet paper.
No!
I wipe again, but the result is the same: blood.
Third wipe, fourth wipe, fifth wipe, blood, blood, and more blood.
My period wasn’t supposed to come until next week, but the cursed thing is early.
And so sneakily: not a twinge of pain, not one symptom, zero warning.
On the other hand, that’s how it is. Have a special evening in mind?
A day at the pool? A beach holiday? The uterus replies: “I see you want to have some fun? I’ll bleed early and ruin everything! ”
I feel like crying.
I flush the toilet, put in a tampon, sigh dejectedly, and look at myself in the mirror: I am the portrait of frustration. I want Michael so badly I’m about to explode.
For a moment I think, Forget my period! But then I think back to when I read Fifty Shades of Grey and the face I made when I read the part where Christian slips his hand between her legs and pulls the blue string to remove her Tampax.
No, I refuse to replicate something so messy on my first night with Michael.
But now I have to tell him.
I wish I could bury myself.
I inhale and exhale a dozen times before I can will myself to step out, my lower lip in an obvious pout.
“Champagne?” he asks me, handsome, bare chested, holding out a glass with a strawberry on the rim. “Whatever you want, we can order it.”
“I hope they have Netflix,” I say with a tremor in my voice.
He raises an eyebrow, confused. “Netflix?”
“We need to find something to do tonight, since . . . I can’t believe what I’m about to say . . . My period came. It’s early, a total surprise.”
I stare at him for any hint of disappointment that might cross his face, but I can’t be more surprised to see him burst into laughter.
A belly laugh that sends him doubling over.
“I’m not joking. I’m dead serious,” I say.
With tears in his eyes, gasping for breath, he collapses on the bed and holds out his arms to me. “Come here, Elisa.”
I fall into his arms, dejected, and he holds me close to him, my face in the crook of his neck. “Are you mad?” I ask, my stomach churning with anguish.
“I don’t care. I just want to be with you,” he replies, kissing my forehead.
And I fall asleep like this, to the rhythm of his breath and his fingers caressing my hair.
Pulling up in front of the annex in the Cinquecento—a name that has less to do with the model of the car than the five-hundred-degree temperature inside it—Michael and I exchange a very long kiss, one loaded with promises, unspoken words, hope, trust, and everything else there can be after the kind of night we just spent together, the kind where nothing and everything happens at once.
You can make love just by talking, and Michael knows how to give me a mental orgasm with a single word.
Who would have thought that a woman’s G-spot was actually in her head?
“I’d better go before my mother calls the police,” I say, breaking off the kiss reluctantly.
“Harvest starts today. Good thing I have plenty of spare calories to burn.” This morning Michael woke me up with a tray of pastries that he personally picked up from the best pastry shop in Florence.
He knows how to spoil a woman on her period.
“How long does the harvest usually take?”
“With fifteen people, it takes about ten days; we have to do three passes to collect the best bunches as they ripen,” I explain.
“I’ll come too,” he replies.
“To harvest grapes?”
“Yeah,” he insists.
“It’s not like in the movies. It’s not some cheerful romp,” I warn him.
“And what makes you think I want to go on a romp? I think I’ll like it, plus you yourself said I have to see how Chianti is made so I can value the property appropriately.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Of course, but I hardly meant you should become a laborer.”
“Shall I call you ‘boss’?” he asks me, giving me a playful kiss on the tip of my nose.
“Yes, and you’ll have to follow my orders.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
We say goodbye with a plan to meet at the stables, before I go inside with two objectives: to change and take a painkiller.
In the kitchen I’m surprised to find Giada, already awake.
“Good morning. Why are you up so early? Are you coming to the vineyard too?”
“I’m not, if you can imagine that. I just heard from Charles . . .” Her tone, combined with her dangling sentence, doesn’t bode well. “I texted him to see if he wanted me to pick him up at the airport tomorrow, but he said he’s not coming.”
I feel bad for her. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?”
“He says he has tentative commitments in London, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to come here before going to Hong Kong, so he’s not.”
“And when will he come?” I ask.
“He doesn’t know.” Giada shakes her head disconsolately. “I’m starting to think he doesn’t love me anymore . . . if he ever did. I think I’ve been fooled again.”
“Oh, Giada, don’t say that.” I rush over to where she’s sitting on the worn sofa to hug her.
She may be my big sister, but when she’s sad, she seems more like a stray puppy.
“If you want, I can ask Michael whether Charles is just having a hard time going back to work or if maybe he met someone else.”
“Don’t bring Michael into this. I’ll just look desperate.
It was so stupid of me to fall into his arms in less than twenty-four hours!
Typical of the male hunter: Once he catches his prey, he’s no longer interested.
Will I ever learn?” Giada is a champion self-pitier.
“You should learn from my mistakes: Never give it away like bread. Even though after last night, it’s probably wasted advice. ”
“Actually, it’s not.”
She cocks her eyebrow at me. “What do you mean?”
“I got my period.” I won’t add the minor detail that Michael and I traded wild sex for sappy cuddles, lest I put the final nail in the coffin.
“There, good girl, hold back. Women can think straight until they have sex, then they lose their minds; men, on the other hand, are disconnected from their brains until they fuck, and then they regain a cruel lucidity.”