La Vita Sexy Read online

  "Please, just relax. You will enjoy it, I promise you." Luca looked at me across the expanse of my body. "But if you don't want me to, I won't."

  I was still tensed, watching him, considering. It went against everything, every unwritten rule in my life. But he hadn't done anything I didn't like yet, and I knew he wouldn't do anything to hurt me. I barely knew him, but I trusted him. Which also worried me. I'd known Harry forever, and I'd thought I could trust him.

  But Luca wasn't Harry.

  I relaxed my legs, closed my eyes, and waited.

  He massaged in slow, gentle circles at first, and his tongue found my clit again, and his other fingers delved inside my pussy to stroke my walls. Sensations overloaded me, wired through me. He continued to massage in circles, and I felt his finger slip in past the ring of muscle. It wasn't unpleasant. Then, as his fingers and tongue worked their magic on my pussy, I began to feel the fiery pressure of climax rising and building, but...twice as potent as ever before. And it was just beginning.

  Moans escaped past my lips, and my hips writhed. Luca's finger pushed deeper and then deeper yet, and now I was whimpering nonstop, explosions rocking through me, my lower half shuddering, and his finger was slipping out ever so slightly and pushing back in.

  Then the climax washed over me in full, and my world shattered. I screamed. Lights burst behind my eyes, my body buzzed and tingled and shook, and still I came. When I thought I couldn't come any harder, I felt Luca slide his body up mine, still clothed. I ripped at his pants, his shirt, got him naked in record time. Still trembling with the rippling currents of orgasm, I felt Luca drive into me, thick and stretching me. I wrapped my body around him, clutched him close and rocked my hips into his, driving him deeper.

  I lost track of time then. We might have been writhing together for minutes or hours; I'll never know. It was one long orgasm for me, an endless climax rising higher and higher until I couldn't withstand it any longer, until I could only hold tight to Luca and ride the ever-cresting wave of ecstasy, drowning, gasping.

  When Luca finally slowed his thrusting and began to plunge into me with slow, primal force, I was nearly limp and still climaxing, slipping down the far slope of orgasm. And then he came, shuddering, growling, and cursing in gasps. When I felt him come, my body clenched around him one last time.

  The sun was significantly lower in the sky when we woke. We dressed and hiked back to the car, holding hands.

  When we were driving again, Luca turned to me. "So, what did you think?"

  I knew what he was talking about. I smiled at him, shyly. "It was...intense."

  "This is a good thing?"

  "Holy shit, Luca. I've never felt anything like it in my life."

  "Ah, then it is a good thing. I am glad." He took my hand and rubbed a thumb in circles around my knuckle. "Perhaps we can do it again, later?"

  "I might need a shower first, though."

  "At my parents' house you will be able to."

  I didn't answer, only nodded. He was assuming I would stay with him there, it seemed. I wasn't so sure, though. There were so many doubts, so many worries about awkward questions, and expectations...none of which had any answers.

  I didn't have long to consider, though, because less than an hour later we were twisting through the streets of Florence...Firenze. Luca parked his car and pulled my suitcase from the hatch, and led me through alleys and narrow side streets. We came to a wide wooden door that opened directly onto the street. Luca knocked once, then opened it and led me through. On the other side of the door was a wide courtyard, open to the air, windows on three sides and a fountain splashing in the center.

  "Luca? E voi?" An older woman appeared, clearly Luca's mother, evident in the curve of their mouths and their aquiline noses.

  "Yes, Mother, it is me," Luca responded, in English. He embraced his mother, kissed both her cheeks, and then turned to me. "Mother, this is Delilah, a very good friend of mine."

  His mother smiled, looking at the way Luca and I stood close to each other, brushing but not touching in the casual closeness of people comfortable with each other's bodies.

  "E lei e solo un amica?" Her smile was knowing, but friendly.

  "English, Mother, please. Delilah is still learning to speak Italian." He nudged me forward, and I extended my hand to shake his mother's. "Delilah, this is my mother, Domenica."

  "It's great to meet you, Domenica," I said. I wished I knew enough Italian to greet her properly, in her own language, but I was afraid what little I did know I would butcher.

  "It is my own pleasure to having you here," Domenica said, taking my hand.

  So maybe it wouldn't have mattered if I butchered it a little.

  "Grazie per avermi qui," I said.

  Domenica smiled at me, nodding. She led us under an archway, down a narrow hallway lined with painted portraits and Virgin Marys. We ended up in a kitchen, wide, high-ceilinged, tiled walls and a fan beating slowly high above. A table sat near one wall, a long, thick slab of wood, scratched and battered and worn smooth over the gouges. It was clearly an ancient thing, much loved, much used. Domenica trailed a hand along the surface of the table as she passed.

  "Sit, sit, please. Coffee will be served in un momento."

  The chairs were just as old, solid and smooth worn. Luca sat next to me and held my hand under the table, which made me feel like a teenager. His mother bustled around the kitchen, filling a glass-and-metal carafe with water and coffee and setting it on a burner on the stove. It took a few moments to realize she was making coffee with a percolator, something I'd heard of but never seen. While the percolator was percolating, she set about making sandwiches, cutting thick slices of bread from homemade loaves, cutting meat from a haunch on a platter in the olive-green circa-1950 refrigerator, and cheese from a yellow-orange wheel. She set them in front of us. Luca's had the crusts cut off and set aside on the plate. I smirked at him.

  "What?" He said, his mouth full. "Mama knows how I like my sandwiches. I have told you, I am a mama's boy."

  "Nessun'altra donna conosce un uomo come sua madre," Domenica said, over her shoulder.

  "Mother, quit playing ignorant. Speak English, please. It is rude." He turned to me. "What she said was, no other woman knows a man like his mother."

  "I figured it was something like that. I caught 'madre.'"

  Luca laughed, and then scowled at his mother as she muttered something else in Italian.

  "She thinks it is funny to pretend to not know English. She understands every word we're saying, and she can speak it passably well, but she doesn't like to. She likes it when Americans underestimate her, I think."

  Domenica glared at Luca, muttering what sounded suspiciously like curses at her son.

  "Now she is being impolite. Saying such nasty things to her favorite son."

  "Not favorite when you are so nosy," Domenica said, in heavily accented but fluent English. "So unkind to your age-old mama. Cannot let a woman have her secrets from American girlfriend."

  "Mama, she is not my--I mean, we are not--" Luca stopped, pinched his nose. "Meddling old woman. Do not mind her, Delilah."

  "I think she's funny," I said.

  We finished the sandwiches, which were beyond delicious, and Domenica brought the percolator and set it on the table. She pushed the plunger down slowly, then poured the thick black coffee into old glazed-porcelain mugs. The coffee, even after milk and sugar, was strong enough to shock me with every careful sip.

  Domenica sat down across from us, poured herself a mug of coffee, and sipped it, black. "You are on a holiday, Delilah?"

  I nodded. "Yes, ma'am. A sort of...extended vacation, I guess."

  Domenica's eyes narrowed. "You are looking for something, then?"

  "Mama, please," Luca growled.

  Domenica gazed at her son with wide-eyed interest. "Only I am asking questions." Voices echoed from the courtyard, a sudden bustle of noise and activity. "Ah, your brothers and sister are arrived here. I think maybe t
hey need help, Luca? Delilah, you stay with me and help for making a dinner?"

  "Mama, I don't think--"

  "It's fine, Luca. I would like to help." I put a hand on his shoulder, standing up. Domenica turned away and busied herself with filling a pot of water, and I used the opportunity to sneak a surreptitious kiss. "Go, see your family. I'll be fine."

  Luca swallowed the last of his coffee and stood up. He kissed me again, and as he turned away, he pinched my bottom. I stifled a squeak, leaping away from his hand, slapping him on the shoulder.

  You'd think, having just been fully and incredibly sated by Luca, that I'd be fine for awhile, but as he walked away I found myself wondering how I could get him alone. I was worried by the depth of my desire for Luca and the hunger with which I wanted his body and the sweet heights of climax he took me to. I'd gone my entire life not knowing what I was missing, and now that Luca had shown me, I couldn't get enough.

  I turned away and attended to Domenica, who, with a knowing glint to her eye, ignored the exchange between Luca and me. She directed me in helping her prepare an elaborate spread of food, pasta, homemade sauce in clear mason jars, some kind of dish with sauteed chicken and roasted red peppers, steamed vegetables...too many other dishes and sides to remember or name. With the amount of food we were making, I found myself wondering exactly how many brothers and sisters Luca had.

  As we began to finish the dishes, Domenica handed me a stack of plates and an assortment of battered, mismatched silverware. There was a formal dining room just off the kitchen, a long, narrow room containing a table meant for at least twenty people. I set the plates out, counting as I went. There were twenty-two places. Which meant, minus myself, there were twenty-one people in his immediate family.

  I may or may not have had a minor panic attack as I arranged the silverware. I had one sister, and she had two kids. Harry was an only child. Even if both my family and his got together, we'd still only number ten. I tried to fathom twenty-one people at one table, from one family. Twenty-one.

  What the hell had I gotten myself into, coming here?

  I heard voices in the kitchen, all jabbering excitedly in Italian. I heard several male voices, several female, and a chaotic burst of children's voices. I made out Luca's honey-smooth voice among the babble, and felt a measure of peace knowing he'd be there with me. But...seriously? Twenty-one people? I'd never been with that many people at once except at parties in college, or classes. A family gathering? It wasn't even a holiday, as far as I knew. It was a Sunday in June.

  I pushed away my nerves and set out the candles I found on a sideboard, huge white tallow tapers on elaborate silver candlesticks. There was a stack of linen napkins, and the sideboard also contained dozens of glasses of all shapes and sizes, mostly wine goblets of one kind or another of varying sizes. Not knowing what else to do, I set the wine glasses out at random.

  I heard a footstep behind me, turned around, and felt Luca's arms wrap around me. His lips touched my jaw, my neck, and then my throat before moving up to my chin and sliding across my lips. His hands ran up my sides and back down, cupping my ass and pulling my body against his. I let myself melt into him, tried to draw strength from his steady heartbeat and graceful strength.

  "Your heart is hitting so fast in your chest," Luca murmured. "You are not afraid, are you?"

  I nodded. "There's twenty-one places, Luca. That's all just your siblings and their kids?" Luca nodded. "It's so many people. I don't...my family is small, and we don't all get together at once very often. And I just met you, and..."

  "Delilah, please, you need to calm down. We are just a family. I did not think of us as so many people, but I can see your fears. My family is kind. They will like you. You will be right at home, I promise. All of my brothers and sisters speak English, and most of their children do as well. You will be fine." Luca looked at the table. "You did very nicely putting out the settings. Mama will approve."

  "I wasn't sure about the glasses. They all seemed to be the same, so I..."

  "It is fine. They are just things to drink from. No need to worry for it." He pulled my hand to lead me back into the kitchen. "Just be your wonderful self, mia bella. It will all be fine."

  It seemed we had arrived a little bit before everyone else. The kitchen, which had before seemed so spacious, was now filled with chattering people, lilting Italian, and laughter and voices raised in voluble excitement. Children ranging in age from early teens to barely toddlers ran in and out of the kitchen, chasing each other and shrieking. I counted eleven, but they all looked alike and they wouldn't hold still, so I couldn't be sure.

  Luca held my hand as we entered the kitchen. Hand-holding seemed to send a pretty clear message as to the nature of our relationship; I considered taking my hand back, but I honestly needed the reassurance of his hand in mine. The only way I would make it through this evening was with Luca.

  A child of about six or seven, a cute little boy with unruly black hair and wide brown eyes, stopped in front of us, regarding me with naked curiosity. "Are you Zio Luca's girlfriend?" he asked.

  I froze, blinked several times. Was I? I decided to go with the easiest answer.

  Luca opened his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it. "Yes, I am," I said in English. I tried an Italian phrase: "Come si chiama? Il mio nome e Delilah."

  "Delilah? I like this name. I am Benito. You are Americano?" He seemed eager to try his English. "Do you have a television in your bathroom?"

  I tried to hide my puzzled look. "Um, no, I only have a TV in my living room."

  I pushed away the thought that I didn't have a living room, or a TV, anymore.

  "Why is your hair red? I met a lady with red hair. She was from Irish-land. She was fat and old. You are pretty and young. Your hair is not so red like hers. Hers was arancione come carote. Can I touch your hair?"

  Luca ruffled the boy's hair, saying, "Benito, you are such a troublemaking boy. Leave Delilah alone and go play con i vostri cugini."

  I laughed. "No, it's fine." I knelt down and tipped my head toward him.

  He rubbed a lock of hair between his fingers, as if the red color might come off. He laughed, ruffled my hair like Luca had his, then ran off. I stood up, running my hands through my hair to smooth it.

  "I am sorry about him. He is my brother's son, and he is truly a troublemaker, but he only means well."

  "It's fine. He reminds me of my nephew at that age. Curious, and says anything that pops into his head."

  "You have a nephew?" Luca asked.

  I nodded. "And a niece. They're teenagers now. Lucy and Raymond."

  Again, unwelcome thoughts pushed into my head. I didn't think I could ever talk to my sister again. If I saw her, I'd completely lose it. If I saw her husband, I'd tell him she was a cheating whore, and then he'd have a heart attack, and it'd be my fault, so I probably wouldn't ever see my niece and nephew again. I thought of Lucy with her bright blonde hair, her volleyball uniform, and Justin Bieber T-shirts, and then Raymond with his godawful death metal shirts and shaggy hair and earbuds always in his ears. My eyes stung. I blinked hard, rubbed at my eyes as if they itched.

  Luca wasn't fooled. "What did I say?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing. Just thinking of my niece and nephew."

  "You miss them?"

  "Yes. I will miss them very much."

  "You will? What do you mean? Won't you see them again when you go back to America?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not sure I want to go back, for one thing. And I could never face my sister again, even if I did."

  Luca looked puzzled. I hadn't told him about my sister and Harry. I sighed. "She slept with Harry."

  "I thought you found him with an older woman? A preacher's wife or some such."

  We were standing in the corner of the kitchen with his family buzzing around us. A giant bottle of wine had been opened and glasses were being poured and passed around, even to some of the older children. I sipped my wine and wished this hadn't come u
p.

  "I did. When I found them, I packed my bag and left. I stopped by my sister's work, thinking I would talk to her. But when I saw her, and told her what I'd found, I just...I realized." My voice lowered until Luca had to lean close to hear. "My own sister, Luca. The bastard slept with my sister. And she--you know what? No. I don't want to talk about this now."

  Luca wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "No, truly. I am sorry to have brought up bad memories. Drink some wine. Come, perhaps I can persuade my sisters to play music so we might dance. Hmm?"

  He tugged me by the hand through the house and into a living room stuffed with couches and chairs and love seats and an upright piano underneath a window. Children played on the floor with toys spilling out of a wicker basket. Four women sat clustered on the chairs around the children, chatting in Italian. When Luca and I came in, they all stood up and hugged and kissed him. He introduced me to them: Lucia, his older sister; Elisabetta, his younger sister; Giuliana, his sister-in-law; and Marta, his other sister-in-law.

  They all effused volubly about how wonderful it was to meet a friend of Luca's and how nice it was for me to join them for their family dinner. I smiled and agreed. They were physical, these women, lunging in and hugging me, wine glasses sloshing but not spilling, kissing my cheeks. I resisted the urge to wipe my face. I hadn't been kissed on the cheek by a woman since I was a little girl, and I hadn't liked it then. I liked it even less as an adult, being kissed by women I'd known for five seconds. I mean, sure, it's a European custom, but when the custom is happening to you and you're not ready for it, it comes as a bit of a shock.