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