Tuscan Heat (4 page)

I circled his shaft with my tongue as far as possible until he was too deeply in my mouth to move, and then I sucked on him as hard as I could.

I glanced up. His head was tipped back, a little dappled light playing across his handsome face. He was too close to his own peak to smile, and he was mumbling something that sounded like a prayer.

The sounds changed from Italian music to English begging. “Please do not stop. Keep going. Feels…so good.”

I put my full attention back on his cock. He throbbed beneath my tongue, the heat of him burning my lips. I felt the sudden tension that meant he was about to peak and I sucked harder. I drank him in faster than he could come.

His eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was open. His back arched as the orgasm that I gave him poured through his body. At last the tension left him.

I sat back on my heels and grinned at him. When he finally opened his eyes, his own expression was more of amazement.

“Thank you. That was one of the finest experiences I have ever had,” he said.

“Glad I could be there for it.”

He stood up and zipped his pants. Then he reached for my hand and pulled me up into an embrace. “I will show you later how much I appreciated that, Serafina,” he murmured.

“Mmm.” His deep voice had traveled from my ear and down my spine, and I shuddered.

Marco gave me another squeeze and stepped back. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment. He held out a little box. “Mint?”

I couldn’t help it. I cackled with glee. He joined me. I accepted the candy and blew him a kiss, which set him off again. We walked down to the entrance with our arms around each other.

“Farewell,
tesoro mio.
Until tonight,” he whispered, bowing over my hand. He let me go with one last caress, reluctance permeating every gesture.

I almost skipped down the hill. My guidebook said Italian men will say things during their pursuit of a woman that American men don’t say until they’re about to propose. Marco
himself had said as much before making love to me. Despite knowing that my lover’s effusive praise was only a game, it was hard not to bask in it like a dog lying belly up in the sun.

In this beautiful place, seduction was almost a way of life. It was exactly what I needed.

Larry’s final comment, that there was “no logical reason to continue putting effort into our relationship considering its diminishing returns,” would be engraved on my brain until I died. Hearing that I was the equivalent of one of his underperforming stocks was a low moment in my life, but it was somehow symbolic of our entire relationship. I had the feelings, Larry had the control. I wasn’t really sorry I’d dated him. I’d learned something. Now I knew I’d never date another man with a computer for a heart.

What I was sorry for was the wasted time. I still didn’t exactly know how it had happened. He had been so different from the moody, hipster types I’d normally dated, and the newness kept me fascinated for a while. He was orderly and neat, even in his thinking. Most of the guys I’d known took out their frustration with other things on me. Larry kept things in their place, with no overlap. The total disconnect between the different areas of his life didn't strike me as a red flag at the time. I just liked the absence of drama.

At the heart of it all I had felt secure with Larry. I’d never dated a man who didn’t play games, and he was straightforward. If he said something hurtful, at least it was the truth. I could wake up each day knowing that Larry would be, well, Larry. There was nothing hidden, no surprises and no dramatic change for the sake of change.

Then each day just sort of fell around me like snow, accumulating in drifts until I woke up and realized four years had gone by and I was freezing to death in a cave of ice. And speaking of frozen, we hadn’t had sex in six months. I still couldn’t believe a sexless relationship had happened to me.

Yet even after my awakening, I hadn’t had the sense to leave. Instead I planned for us to come to Florence and thaw out in the glorious light of Tuscany. A renaissance of our own, so to speak. Fortunately, he dumped me after I booked the hotel, but before I’d bought the plane tickets. He’d be proud of me for being happy over the saved money. He’d always wanted me to be more practical.

I shook my head. It was time to get back to my goal of avoiding cynicism. My other goal of saying yes was working out pretty well. I didn’t want to think about Larry. I wanted to take a bath and think about Marco, and I didn’t know if I was anywhere near my hotel. I didn’t recognize the neighborhood at all. The sun beat down on my hatless head with a lot more enthusiasm than it ever did at home. With a pang, I realized I had neither map nor phrase book, because those were the sort of things that…Larry would have carried. Damn.

I’d told Marco a little white lie. I didn’t know exactly how far it was back to the city center. I’d figured it couldn’t be too far. I could see the great dome of the cathedral from the Stibbert, after all. But the museum was on a high hill, and once down into the streets, there were no landmarks to let me know how far I still had to walk. The few people out and about on a workday smiled but likely didn’t understand English. Unfortunately, I’d told Marco the bare truth about my Italian skills. I really had just memorized a few bits about wine and bathrooms and the basic courtesies. Asking for directions might result in my walking to Rome.

There was nothing for it but to keep walking. I was pretty sure I was going in the right direction. If nothing else, I’d eventually hit the Arno River.

First, I needed a rest. I was next to a thick, ancient wall, nearly overgrown with climbing roses. Some of the vines were as thick as my wrist. I touched one, gently. It could be hundreds of
years old. Again I had that peculiar sensation of being solidly rooted in time, of being part of something that stretched back for thousands of years.

There was a bench set into a niche in the wall a few feet ahead of me. I sprawled across the woven metal surface and took in the scent of the flowers.

The traffic was light in this part of the city, and the vehicles were mostly the ubiquitous scooters. Florentine streets were too narrow for a car to be anything but a pain in the rear, and I enjoyed seeing the various options people had employed for their comfort and convenience. Some of the scooters had little plastic bubble tops to keep out rain. A few people had tricycles modified into miniature pickup trucks. All of them buzzed along at a much higher pitch than I was used to hearing.

The rumble of a real motorcycle’s engine stood out like a lion’s roar over a beehive. I heard it long before I saw it, and when it came into view, I was surprised to see that someone had imported a Harley.

The rider wore the latest in expensive mesh biking armor. His cobalt blue helmet matched his bike. I noticed all this because he slowed to a stop right in front of me. He took off the full helmet and shook out his dark silky hair.

“Sara? What are you doing here?” said Marco.

“You have a Harley?”

“Do you ever just say hello?

“Hello, Marco. You have a Harley?”

“In graduate school, I developed a taste for American things.” His face was straight, but his eyes had a little spark. “So what are you doing here?”

I tried to come up with a lewd rejoinder, but I was too hot. “I’m taking a break before I finish my little stroll. What are you doing here?”

“You are going the long way around,
Americana.
”

“I am?”

“A left at the last intersection would take you straight back to the old city. This road will take you around the train station to the west.”

“I meant to navigate by the dome,” I said with my chin out. “It’s not my fault it disappeared.”

He laughed, but his voice was sympathetic. “It looks so tall until you are out of the hills,” he said.

I got to my feet. “Well, thank you for the directions. If I’m going the wrong way, you must not have been following me.” I snapped my fingers with a mock sigh.

“If I had known you needed to be rescued, I would be here on purpose.”

I blinked. “Er…thank you?”

“Come. I am here now. I will give you a ride.”

“I’m not dressed for it,” I began to say with regret. I loved riding on motorcycles and it had been years since my last cruise.

He pulled a plain black half helmet out of a saddlebag. “We will not go fast, and here is my spare helmet. You will be safe with me.”

I looked at him. His brown eyes were so kind. “Yes,” I said. “I guess I would be.”

He reached toward me. I leaned in, expecting a kiss. Instead his hand went past my head to the wall. Before I could be embarrassed about misreading him, he stripped the thorns from a single rose and placed it in my hand. “It matches the bloom in your cheeks, Serafina.”

I blushed. I tried to hide it by fussing with the helmet, but I could tell he’d seen it by the smile on his face. I tucked the flower into the saddlebag and let him help me onto the back of the seat. His hands lingered on my body until I was perfectly in place.

He swung his leg over the seat and started the engine. The low throb traveled through the frame and up into the seat. I shivered in delight.

“Hold on!” he called over his shoulder. I put my hands on his waist, feeling a bit shy for some reason. “You can do better than that,” he shouted.

I seized his waist. I could feel him chuckle. Then we were off.

The powerful bike purred and rumbled through the streets. The machine between my legs and the warm man in my arms was a terrific combination.

Before I’d had nearly enough, the ride turned bumpy. We were on cobblestones in front of my hotel. I sighed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling off the helmet. “When you are better dressed for the trip, I will take you out into the country. But I will not risk your beautiful skin.”

“Marco, you make disappointment sound like poetry,” I said into his ear. I gave him a squeeze.

He dismounted and reached for my hand. Despite his care, I turned my ankle when I stepped badly onto the cobblestone. I yelped.

“Sara, what happened? No, I see. Lean on me.”

“I’ll be all right,” I lied. It was throbbing something fierce. “You can’t park here, anyway.”

“You are planning to spend the next week on your feet. Don’t be silly.” He flipped his keys to the doorman, who had rushed to our side, and said something in Italian. The doorman saluted. “There, you see? The bike doesn’t need to be moved, but if it did, no problem.”

The concierge’s eyes grew wide when we came through the door. I put up my hand. “I’m fine. Just a little turn. May I have my key, please?”

She handed me the heavy brass fob with the enormous antique key, along with a message form. “You received this after you left,” she began, glancing at Marco.

“Yes, I sent it, but then I happened to run into her. Could you send up some ice, please? Also, there is a rose in the left rear compartment. Please bring it up as well.” he said.

“At once, sir.”

We went to the elevator. “You certainly have a way with the staff,” I said when the inlaid doors closed behind us.

“Firenze is really one big small town,” he said. I wanted to get past that non-answer, but we’d arrived at my floor. Marco got us to my room and had me in the brocade wing chair, settled like a princess. The concierge herself appeared with a bucket of ice and an old fashioned floppy ice pack, the kind with a screw-on lid. She also had the pink rose in a crystal vase, which she set on my nightstand.

“Really, I’m fine.” I tried to get up and winced.

“You should not take chances,” said the concierge. “You are surely going to do a lot of walking.”

Marco looked smug. “Sounds familiar.”

She smiled and left. Marco continued, “May I suggest my grandmother’s method? Leave the ice on for a few minutes more to ease any swelling. Then take a very hot bath. Then be kind to yourself tonight. Room service here is quite good. We will have our dinner date tomorrow.”

I started to argue, but he put a finger on my lips. I couldn’t resist. I opened my mouth and sucked on the fingertip he’d used to silence me. I loved the way his hips moved when I turned him on.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“I am going to prepare you that bath to keep you from cheating on the temperature.”

“But I—”

“No buts,
Americana.
You argue too much.”

“I was just going to say I have nothing to change into. My luggage still hasn’t shown up.”

He reached into the armoire and tossed the hotel’s complimentary bathrobe onto my lap before he vanished into the bathroom. The water came on, and a moment after that, I heard him start to hum a song I didn’t know.

“That’s a beautiful tune. Are there any words?” I called out. He didn’t answer directly, but the humming changed into full-throated singing. He had a marvelous tenor voice, with rich, pure tones.

“—su navi per mari che io lo so—”
the singing broke off while he fumbled with the faucet. Then he appeared in the doorway.
“—no no non esistono piu con te io li rivivrò…Con te partirò, io con te!”

The final note rang out like a bell, and he held it like a real opera singer. I applauded until the palms of my hands were tender. “Marco, that was amazing! You told me you were an architect, not a musician.”

“It is nothing. In Italy, everyone knows a little music. Perhaps I will take you to hear a real singer this week.”

“I just heard a real singer.”

“Then maybe I had better not, so you will continue to think I have talent.” He winked at me. “Come, into the bath.”

He helped me up, and although I barely winced, he scooped me into his arms. “You don’t need to be doing this,” I said, half scolding.

“That is what makes it a pleasure and not a chore.”

He set me down on the teak bath stool. I swatted away his hands. “I can undress myself, at least.”

“That would also be a pleasure.”

“But then I wouldn’t be soaking my ankle, would I.”

Marco made a very Italian hand gesture and bent down to kiss me. As tender as he had been a moment ago, his kiss left no doubt as to his future intentions. I responded with equal heat.