My mind went to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Casque of Amontillado,” where an Italian man buries his former friend alive behind a wall in his wine cellar. I made a mental note to be extra careful with the wine cellar’s frescoed wall.
“I can hear how excited you are,” he purred, and all thoughts of Poe went out the window. “Tell me, what do you plan to do later?”
During the ride from my bus stop to the villa earlier this morning, I had concocted a plan. After passing an incredible market on the way in to work this morning, I also spotted a cheese shop, a wine shop, and a bakery, all within thirty steps of the bus stop.
“I was thinking of making dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?”
“Mm-hmm, Daisy’s flying out tonight, I’ll be alone.” I held my breath. “Want to come?”
“Just tell me what time,” he replied.
I told him anytime after seven and hung up with a secret smile on my face.
* * *
“I MIGHT USE YOUR LUGGAGE. It’s so much nicer than mine,” Daisy teased, running a hand across the leather. She flicked open the lock and examined the smooth interior. “Definitely using it. Then it guarantees you’ll really be here when I come back.”
“Of course I’ll be here.” I blinked at her innocently. “I’d never leave without my Vuitton luggage.”
She slapped me on the arm. “I’m serious. I travel so much, but I’ve never had someone waiting for me when I got back. It’s kind of nice.”
Daisy the globetrotter was off on a late flight to Amsterdam tonight, bidding on her next project. Who knew when she’d be back. Just last night I was raving about her nomadic lifestyle, but this put her life into a new perspective for me. Sure she had work friends here. but what’s left of her family was back in Boston, and her visits back to the States had gotten less and less frequent over the years.
“Makes you want to find a nice gorgeous Italian man to settle down with, doesn’t it,” I said, arching my eyebrow at her.
“I think you’ve got the nice and gorgeous on lock. I’m in no hurry for either. Besides, I’ve got you. Speaking of nice and gorgeous, any plans while I’m gone? You’ve got a lot of nonwork hours to fill. Whatever will you do?”
I evaded, not because I didn’t want to tell her, but because I didn’t want to jinx anything. “Subtle. I was thinking of some day trips; Florence, Bologna, maybe Milan for a weekend.” I paused, hearing the actual words I was saying. “What is this life?”
“Don’t question it. You deserve every ounce of happiness that this country brings you. P.s., I hear Marcello loves Milan.”
“What’s another word for subtle?” I asked. “Hey, no way!” I cried as she starting pulling my matching duffel bag from my closet. “If you’re taking all my fantastic luggage, I’m keeping this.”
“For weekend trips—”
“For weekend trips,” I said, giddy at the thoughts of planning them. I wasn’t limited to Italy, either. I could revisit Spain. Pop over to Paris. Explore Greece. The sky was the limit. I just hoped that he’d be free—and interested—to join me. But what would that entail? I know what weekends away with Marcello used to mean: lots and lots of naked times. Is that still what it meant? Was I ready for that?
I was pulled out of my thoughts by Daisy, packed and ready to go.
“Don’t get into any trouble while I’m in Amsterdam,” Daisy teased, grabbing her purse and keys. “I worry, leaving you home all alone.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother.”
“Whatever will you do while I’m away . . .”
When the door clicked shut, I jumped from the couch and danced to the table to find my phone to call Marcello. I danced, shimmied, and sang his name. There may have been some humming. It may have been “Let’s Get It On.”
“I can hear you,” she shouted from the stairwell. “You can at least have the decency to wait until I leave before calling your boooooyfriend.”
I swung open the door. With wide-eyed innocence, I said, “How’d you know I was calling your dad?”
She mock-gagged. “Unfair!”
“Be safe. Love you!”
When she disappeared around the corner, I closed the door, leaning against it. The phone was clutched in my hands and my nerves were climbing like vines to wrap themselves around my lungs. I had a pretty good idea of what might happen when he came over, and for the life of me I couldn’t find one reason to not to do exactly that.
I took one more breath, then called to let him know that Daisy had left the building.
With barely one ring, he answered with an out of breath, “Pronto.”
“Hey, am I interrupting you?”
He cleared his throat. “Hey to you, and no, you are not interrupting me. How are you?”
“I’m good. Uh . . . Daisy just left.”
“I see,” he said quietly.
“Do you still want to come over? We could you know . . . hang out.”
“Hang out?”
“Yeah, you know hang out. Board games, Netflix, and chill.”
“Board games?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“And dinner, you didn’t forget I said I’d make dinner.”
“I have not.”
Everything south of my teeth clenched, tightened, and sang “Hallelujah” in anticipation. “I went shopping this afternoon. I have ingredients.”
“I like ingredients.”
“How’s an hour? That’ll give me time to get things going in the kitchen.” And reshave my legs, loofah my entire body. Slather myself in that blood orange lotion I bought at the fancy Italian soap shop. As you do.
“That might be a problem.”
My heart sank. I didn’t consider there being a hiccup. “Oh, okay,” I said, trying to sound unaffected. “Just come over whenever you can.”
Two knocks rapped at the door.
I jumped, dropping the phone to the floor with a clatter. “No way.” I gasped, picking it up and tiptoeing to the door. “Tell me this isn’t you.”
He let loose a low chuckle. “I would be lying.”
I’d just taken my hair down from the braids I’d been wearing all day. I’d borrowed a shirt from Daisy to wear; it was a size too small, so old it was practically see-through, and happened to be covered in cartoon lobsters. To say nothing of my boxers; yes, old-man boxers that I wear around when I am alone.
Not exactly the seduction I had planned. And yet, I didn’t care.
I tossed the phone and flung the door open. His warm brown eyes went wide when he saw me.
I didn’t think or consider; I just jumped, wrapped, and held on while he pinned me to the door. He was all grasping arms and seeking fingers, and I was melting.
IT WAS SCARY HOW MUCH I wanted this. Nine years later, and it was as if no time had passed. That feverish undercurrent was ever present, and thankfully it wasn’t just me who felt it. Marcello wasn’t holding back, kissing, squeezing, sliding over every inch he could reach.
“What is this you are wearing?” he asked between searing kisses, gripping the waist of my shorts.
I felt scattered, trying to remember any thought I had before he kissed me. What underwear did I have on? Does the bra even match? He kissed along my collarbone before nipping at the crook between my neck and my shoulder. Lord, don’t kiss me there. Fuck, my thoughts were lost again.
“I had plans, lingerie, seduction. These are—”
“Perfetto,” he answered, and slipped his hands beneath the shorts to cup my bottom. He just held them there, ten perfect pressure points. His arms trembled beneath me. “You don’t need to seduce me. I wanted you again the moment you walked up to the table.”
“Marcello,” I whispered, and in response his hands squeezed just so.
He rocked his hips up slowly, dangerously. “Give me a minute. Don’t move,” he breathed against my neck.
Staying there for a moment, his chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths. My muscles were bunching, pulled so tight from being
still. It was a delicious burn. I could feel him ready and impatient, and as much as I wanted to savor every moment of this reunion, I didn’t want to wait.
Pulling away from my shoulder, he pressed our foreheads together, as his body tensed with each breath. “Tesoro,” he began, sounding nervous.
“What is it?”
Kissing me quickly, he took a deep breath and exhaled a quiet, “I want this. All of you, now. I know there are talks we need to have but I . . . if you are not ready or if there is something else stopping us . . . tell me. We can wait. We can wait.” He finished, stumbling over the last few words.
I knew without a doubt he would have stopped then, no questions asked. He would help me get dressed and we’d carry on our night as if the past ten minutes never happened.
“I need this. You,” I answered, and pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a plant in the corner.
A surge lit him up from the inside out. “Thank God.”
If possible, he became more eager, more harried, grasping and clutching. My legs locked around his waist, my hands twisted in his hair, and my lips touched, kissed, and tasted everywhere they could reach.
My back was against the door again with a thud, and that damn door knocker was there, biting into my skin. One of his arms held me while the other roamed, slipped, and brushed. He pulled the front of my shirt down, exposing my pink bra. He pulled back and took in the sheer fabric, muffling a curse against my chest.
“Hold on,” he ordered, not giving me any time to react. He stepped over the threshold and kicked the door shut before pushing me against the window beside it. It was cool against my heated skin. Perfect.
Holding me with his hips, his hands snaked up between us until he gripped the top of the shirt—
“—wait, wait—”
—and tore. Tossing it off to the side to land on a lamp.
“That was Daisy’s.” I laughed, pulling my face away from his needy lips.
“I will buy her a new one.”
I reached up and held his face in my hands. He turned his head to the side to kiss my palm once, then again, and held them there breathing deeply. It was a sweet gesture and such a strong contrast to the fevered kisses. I smoothed my hands over his shoulders, counting and remembering all the little freckles that were scattered across his bare skin. The scar on his shoulder had faded a bit since the last time I saw it, his body fuller and more muscular. My cheeks and chest were hot from staring at him. I reached down over his chest, then lower before gliding back up in a slow circuit.
My hands slid over his pecs, my thumbs rubbing just over his rib cage where he had a crop of tiny birthmarks. I realized just how much of his body I had memorized; there wasn’t an inch I had forgotten. I tightened my legs at his waist while pushing at his shoulders so that I was at a slight angle.
His eyes were the darkest I’d seen them since arriving in Italy. They were filled with a yearning that I missed. A want that I hadn’t seen or felt in so long.
I wondered then what answers he was seeking.
But more than anything else, he looked like my lover from Spain. Felt like him, and made me feel like I was with him again. That feeling of us conquering the world was back.
“You are making me crazy,” he said, moving us down the hallway.
“You’re the crazy Roman who started kissing on me the second he came in the door. Or was it before you even got in?”
“I’ll give you get in, which room?”
“I don’t care.” I gasped when his fingers slipped into my panties and cupped me, his thumb pushing against me just so. “Oh! Dio mio.”
He smiled against my neck, the prickles from his scruff tickling the sensitive skin there. “I can’t wait,” I insisted, wiggling my hips to prove my point.
He shook his head and repeated, “Which room?”
“Last door on the right.”
My heart skipped as he carried me into my bedroom. He looked around the room before settling me on the tufted club chair in the corner.
Smiling down at me, he smoothed my hair off my face before reaching for his pants button.
I moved forward to stop him. “Let me.”
My hands trembled, not from nerves but anticipation. Maybe he sensed my struggle, or maybe he was just as impatient as I was, but he brought his hands up and over mine to help. Together we unbuttoned his pants and slid them down before he kicked them off into the corner.
Marcello played soccer all his life and his legs showed it. Toned, strong, and just the right amount of muscle. He must still play because he was just as fit as I remembered.
I toyed with the hem of his boxers, sliding my hands up and under, teasing. I loved the tightening of his muscles, the slight buck of his hips when I just barely brushed him.
“Tesoro, how you tease,” he purred, reaching out to slide my bra strap down. He repeated it on the other side before tipping the bra cups forward so my breasts spilled out.
His fingers lightly brushed over my nipples, between my breasts, and down until he edged along the top of my panties.
“Do you remember our first time together?” he said, settling down on the hardwood to kneel between my legs. His hands rested on my knees, thumbs brushing along the sensitive skin.
I nodded, inching my body slowly down toward his. Judging by the wry smirk on his face, he was relishing my eagerness.
Marcello kissed my knee before slowly dragging his lips up my inner thigh. I was so tightly wound that it was taking everything within me not to snap. To push him down to the floor and sink down onto him.
“With the moon behind you like that? You look so much like that girl,” he said between kisses against my thigh. Up, up higher with each kiss. “Wild hair, fiery eyes, and lips that would tempt any man,” he whispered against me, just there. Just when I thought he couldn’t stretch out the delicious torture anymore, he dropped one kiss against the silk covering me.
“Please,” I begged, pushing forward against his lips.
With his hands under my bottom, he lifted me to his waiting mouth.
Mumbling against me, he stood quickly, picked me up, turned, and tossed me onto the bed.
I propped myself up on my elbows, quirking a finger for him to come closer. A wicked sparkle flashed in his eyes.
Leaning back along the bed, I loved the way my muscles stretched and drew his eyes, keeping him focused. He didn’t care that my hair was wild or that my makeup wasn’t perfect. Marcello only saw me.
“What do you want, Avery?” he asked, leaning forward to kiss one hip bone. Once, twice, three times before his lips danced across my stomach to the other. Strong fingers flexed and pressed. No thought, daydream, or fantasy compared to the feel of his callused fingers on my heated skin.
Sitting up, he smoothed my hair behind my ear and picked up a lock. Twisting a curl between his fingers, his eyes flickered to my mouth. “Tell me.”
I swallowed, desperate to find the words. “You know what I want.”
His chest rose and fell, fingers twirling the curl once more.
Pushing myself up, my fingers slid inside the waist of his boxers and down. His hips bucked. Hurry.
“I need to hear it,” he said, smoothing his hands over my shoulders. Everywhere his fingers brushed, fire erupted over my skin.
“You. Just you,” I said between peppering kisses over his stomach muscles. “Please.”
With a tug, the panties were torn in two and tossed to the side. He laid his hand flat against my pubic bone, fingers spread wide with his thumb smoothing over me in maddening circles. Now keeping his thumb still, he dipped a finger inside me slowly, lulling me into a rhythm before thrusting in faster. One became two and his thumb just pushed and held.
He wasn’t speaking. Just heavy breathing, small grunts here and there. I wanted more.
“Talk to me, Marcello,” I asked, reaching up to touch his face.
“Say my name again,” he whispered, kissing my fingertips.
He ni
bbled down my arm and across my chest and held on to me while he used his teeth along my breasts. His muscles were shaking as he kissed my belly.
“Marcello.”
“Again.”
Each time I repeated it, he’d ask for it again.
Until he confessed, “I missed hearing you say it when I made you come.”
My head thudded back against the mattress when he hit the right tempo. Every fiber in me seized up and exploded around his fingers.
“That’s my tesoro,” he said tenderly, leaning up to kiss me again.
Tesoro. I remembered the word from our time together in Barcelona.
The moonlight slanted into the windows, the beams dancing across the bed over us. He just stared and smiled. “Avery,” he said between kisses across my breasts. He placed his lips directly over my heart and spoke reverently just one word, “Tesoro.”
“What does it mean?” I asked, holding his face and my breath, wondering what he would confess.
“Treasure.”
To have him repeat it again, after all these years. After all the mistakes, it meant something. When he said it in Spain, there was a palpable shift in the relationship. It moved from summer fling to . . . Hope ballooned in my chest and I wondered, was history repeating itself?
Sliding off the bed, he rifled blindly through his pants and pulled out a condom.
“I want to memorize your body all over again,” he said, fingers traveling over my body.
“I’ve missed this. You. So much,” I admitted, pulling him over me.
He slid a pillow beneath my head and tucked both of our arms beneath it. With his hands holding mine and our lips just barely touching, he slid inside.
My gasp and his moan reverberated in the otherwise silent room.
With the moonlight on his face, I felt deep in my chest how much I had missed him. He wasn’t slow or tender. Everything about his pace had become frenzied, powerful, and we were climbing. He was chasing our release with every thrust. Every grasp of his hands over mine made my body sing.
Marcello kissed me, bruising my lips with his intensity. A bite, then a peck, before his tongue swept into my mouth. He was reaching his end when his movements became more frantic. He pushed himself up onto his arms, muscles flexing before reaching one hand between us.