Chapter 37
ASHA
Venice is the first very hot place we’re at, and with the humidity, the group is not handling it well.
“Can we go inside somewhere yet?” Thomas asks, to the cheers of his fellow tourists.
I stop my speech on the Doge’s Palace. “I know, guys. It’s really uncomfortable.
But Venice is the kind of city that makes the discomfort worthwhile.
There are some cold water bottles being sold over there.
Why don’t we make a quick stop to hydrate and then we can get back to St. Mark’s Square and back to history? ”
“Even though you told them to bring plenty of water before we left this morning. And last night when we got off the bus,” Callum whispers in my ear.
“You know the hotter it is, the more difficult the tour is going to be.” Poor Italy.
Beautiful, historic, delicious wine, and the best food on the trip, but it gets saddled with being on the end of the trip and too hot (in the summer) for the people to really appreciate it as much as it should be appreciated.
“They should be happy that they’re in one of the best cities in the world and enjoy it accordingly.”
I gasp, and Callum looks around to see what caused it. Probably thinking someone fell into the canal or got pooped on by one of the many pigeons that call the Square their home. Both disasters that the tourists will make our problem.
“What happened?”
“You called Venice the…BEST CITY EVER!”
“One of the best cities in the world. And this is what happens when I spend too much time with you.” He scowls, a Callum scowl that means he’s embarrassed at getting caught enjoying things.
“Ha! You would be so lucky.”
He just looks at me, his eyes as hot as this day is. Phew, I know how my group is feeling. Like they need to shed some clothes and jump into a nice, cold pool of water.
But that is a luxury for people actually on vacation. I have to continue with this tour. So I ineffectively flap my hands at myself, only succeeding in blowing hot air at my face.
The tourists trudge back to me, all holding giant, cold water bottles they definitely overpaid for.
And that are already half-empty. But everyone seems a little more lively, so I smile in gratitude even though we’re going to be making a lot of stops (of the water and the bathroom variety) on this tour.
And we even started early in the morning to avoid some of the more oppressive heat of a Venetian summer day, using the boats to get to Venice from our hotel just outside the city.
“These replicas of copper horses traveled a long way to be here. They were made in either Ancient Greece or Rome, then taken to Constantinople, where Venice captured them during the Fourth Crusade. The originals are inside St. Mark’s Basilica, which is done primarily in a Middle Byzantine and Romanesque style.
I highly recommend coming back here in your free time and seeing the inside of the Basilica and the Palace. ”
Callum and I trade off talking during the stops on the tour, and I love watching him work.
He doesn’t give off his usual air of grumpy anger that you’re wasting his time when he’s in lecture mode.
He’s engaged, maybe not smiling, but I get the suggestion of happiness emanating from him.
Since I know how to interpret his face now.
Seeing Callum in front of the beautiful brick and painted buildings, the canals that weave lazily through them and the greenery that overflows from painted ledges and shutters while he’s talking about history, he’s never looked so attractive to me.
The tour is mercifully over before I can expire from lust (and the regular heat), ending at a glass-blowing demonstration where I hand the tired, overheated tourists over to a charming, well-dressed Italian man who has more than a little experience with tired, overheated tourists.
“Do you ever feel bad that we get a cut of the sales they make here?” Callum whispers in my ear.
“Feeling bad about all the capitalism happening?” I nod at the glass shop to the right of the glass blowing area, whispering over the oohs and ahhs of the group watching a man blow into some hot, melted glass.
“Kind of.”
“Eh. The demonstrations are cool and everything is air conditioned, aside from the glass-blowing forge area. Some people want these things when they travel and they’re authentic as they can be, made in the location they were invented.
And they don’t have to go looking for it.
But I’d feel worse if our pay wasn’t so terrible. ”
The demonstration ends and the glass blower ushers the group into the shop.
I step in before they get inside, using tour guide privilege to get to the AC first. “As of now you’re all on free time.
Take your time in the shop and we’ll be around if you need suggestions of things to do this afternoon and tomorrow morning.
We’ll leave for Florence tomorrow afternoon, around two p.m.”
I try to give as many helpful suggestions as I can for activities the group can do in their free time, but I have a feeling a lot of them are heading straight for a nap.
I emphasize how many of the activities are air conditioned, and I think I swayed some of them.
A few are interested in a gondola ride where they don’t have to walk anymore, so at least that’s something.
When the last duckling has waddled away from the nest, I turn to Callum. “Want to grab a drink? We deserve it after the day we’ve had.”
“I could also go for some pasta.”
“Yes. And let’s eat inside. None of this European outdoor seating, I need AC.”
“Agreed.” Callum takes my hand, entwining our fingers as we look for a restaurant that’s far enough from the main sites that we won’t run into anyone.
We eat too much food and drink too much wine, spending the rest of the afternoon walking it off, wandering through the maze-like streets of Venice.
“You know what I’ve never done, Callum?”
“Tell a tourist when they’re being obnoxious?”
“I would never!” How rude.
“Went a day without smiling?”
“Stop guessing; you’re depressing me. I’ve never been on a gondola ride.” I look at the canal next to us, with its steady supply of gondolas cutting slowly and gracefully through the water. “Seen plenty of them. Organized perhaps hundreds of them for others. But I’ve never done it myself.”
“How?”
“I never had anyone to go with. It’s one thing to go to a museum alone. But I haven’t been able to summon the courage to get in that little boat alone.” I look wistfully at them.
“I know where this is going. No.”
“Come on, Callum. It’ll be fun! So many people are doing it; they can’t all be wrong.”
“Yes, they can. A lot of Americans think trickle-down economics is a valid thing. They’re all wrong.”
“First of all, you are entirely correct about how wrong trickle-down economics is. Secondly, you are entirely wrong about gondolas; they are a good, popular, fun entertainment that never increased the wealth gap.”
“If your entire argument is going on a gondola is better than trickle-down economics, it doesn’t seem like the biggest endorsement.”
“Come on, Rain Cloud. I’ll pay and you’ll get to see Venice from a new perspective. It’ll be fun.”
“I’ll go. But I’m paying. And I won’t enjoy it.’”
“You can pay. But I formally object about the non-enjoyment clause.”
“Fine, I’ll enjoy it.” His face tells a different story, in Callum-speak. But his face is wrong.
I drag him to the first available gondola before he can change him mind.
There’s a line, which doesn’t do anything for Callum’s mood, but aside from some dark looks, he stays in line with me.
I’m surprised, but I won’t question the gift horse; I’ll just quietly hope it doesn’t hold an entire army of Greeks who’ll attack me.
When it’s our turn, Callum gently helps me down into the rocking boat and then gets in himself.
I still half expect him to abandon me at this last viable opportunity, but he doesn’t and then we’re gently rocking toward the Grand Canal.
We weave through narrow canals and under bridges that have stood for centuries.
“You want to take a selfie right now, don’t you?” Callum asks as we float past a particularly picturesque street.
“No. I am just fine taking pictures of the buildings from here. Because I am being in the moment.” The last word has a bit of a bite. Because it’s a lie, but I don’t want to push Callum.
“Well, that’s not true.”
“It’s totally not. Smile.” I turn the camera around and snap the picture before I can stop myself.
“Feel better?”
I exhale, from all the exertion of holding in my selfie-instincts. “So much better.”
The ride ends with multiple selfies and some shots Callum took of only me (and a lot that I took of only him). And plenty of Venice, of course.
After, we stop at the first Italian restaurant we come to for dinner.
We almost run into Emilio and Rebecca, but I pull Callum into an alcove and kiss him to avoid them.
Because kissing Callum is never a chore.
The two of them together suggests a little tour romance of their own, so I don’t think we have to worry about them wanting to hang out.
When we get back to the hotel, there’s no awkward wondering about who’s going to sleep where. Callum follows me straight up to my room and then into it.
Before the door fully closes, my dress is on the floor, and Callum’s shirt is on my bedside table. A few minutes later, my bra and underwear are on the TV and Callum’s pants are thrown on the antique chaise.
I shove Callum down on the same couch, kissing my way down his chest as I get on my knees in front of him, enjoying the feel of his skin under my lips. His muscles contract with every touch, and I feel the same rush of power as I always do, seeing my effect on him.
Greedy for it, drunk off it after all the time we spent together not touching, I want more. So I take his cock into my mouth with no warning. His hips shoot off the couch and deeper into my mouth as Callum groans from above me.
I work my mouth up and down on him, licking a few times to get it wetter, as his breathing gets choppier. The muscles of his thighs and abdomen tighten when my hands join my mouth to fully cover his erection.
“Not without you coming first,” Callum growls. He tugs on my arms and before I can protest, I’m sitting on the couch with Callum on his knees in front of me.
He roughly grabs my thighs, and pulls them over his shoulders, and it’s all I can do is throw my head back to the couch as he slides his tongue against my clit.
He slowly works his fingers around my vulva, then presses into it suddenly, making me arch my clit farther onto his mouth, and pushing his fingers deeper into me.
“Are you ready for me?”
“Yesyesyesyes.”
“I don’t think you sound very convincing.”
“Do me already!” I yell, the beginning of the sound complaint from the neighbors.
“That is slightly more convincing, but I remain doubtful.” He goes back to licking me like a I’m gelato and it’s summer in, well, Italy.
I writhe under him as he masterfully gets me closer to orgasm.
And then pulls back to kiss all the skin around where I want him, just to get me back to the edge again.
And then again and again until I’ve fully lost any semblance of rational thought.
Every second I change from loving and hating the man giving me equal parts pleasure and torture.
Finally, he gets up and sits next to me on the couch, his lips shining in the moonlit room.
He reaches into his pants’ pocket where he apparently put a condom earlier, and he puts it on.
He pushes into me, pressing me horizontally onto the couch.
Even though I’ve been primed with his tongue and fingers, I still feel a pleasurable stretch as he enters.
All the way in, he pauses, letting me savor the sensation as he kisses me. I can taste myself on him, and I moan into his lips. His hands tangle in my long hair, causing a slight sting. He starts thrusting in and out, but then he stops.
“What’s happening? Why did you stop?” I ask.
“This couch is too damn small,” he growls, sending shoots of electricity to my clit. Because that voice is so sexy. My muscles tighten around him in response, and his cock has an answering throb inside me.
“Shit.” He throws his head back and closes his eyes as he freezes. Then he snaps his head back down again. “Hold on,” he commands.
Before I can ask for what, but after I grab on to his shoulders, he picks me up off the couch as he stands. He lifts me easily, staying inside me as he takes the few steps to the window. Then he pulls out for as long as it takes to turn me around and bend me over the table in front of the window.
“Look out at Venice. Beautiful, but it’s not as beautiful as you,” he growls. The city lights shine from our viewpoint, but I barely see any of it when Callum enters me again. My eyes immediately shut at the pleasurable sensation, view wasted on me.
He starts thrusting again, resuming his pace like the interruption never happened. He grabs my hand and places my fingers on my own clit.
“I want you to play with yourself while I’m in you.”
I moan at the command and obey. It’s even easier to be obliging when Callum tells me to do the things I already want to do.
And I’m rewarded with a sensation better than the first bite of chocolate, the first sip of water on a hot day, and the feeling when people tell me I gave them the best trip ever.
While my fingers are rubbing my clit, Callum pushes in even deeper. I tighten around him more and more until I come, contracting around his hard cock.
He groans at my orgasm, which pushes him into his own.
Panting, he collapses on me, and I exhale loudly at the weight that’s suddenly crushing me.
I weakly slap at his side to get him to move, as a concession to my lungs which apparently need an airflow.
Because the rest of me is very comfortable with him where he is, even if I am bent over a table.
Callum grunts and carries me to the bed, setting me on it and then following me down. “Come here,” Callum mumbles, tucking me into his side.
“But your arm,” I protest softly.
Callum doesn’t say anything, but he does pull me in even closer.
Well, if he can’t be bothered to care about his arm, I’m not going to move from this position that I’m enjoying very much.