One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  I ignore it for now.

  “Okay, good,” she says, eyes downcast so all I see are her lashes. “I was worried that I’d either be too overdressed or too underdressed.”

  “You’re perfect,” I tell her, licking my lips. If only I could get her to believe it.

  I clear my throat, trying to regain some composure. “And me? No kind words for me?”

  “Do you need me to tell you you’re handsome?”

  “Yes,” I say emphatically. “How else will I know?”

  She breaks into a smile that lights up her whole face. At least she still finds me funny. That’s something. Maybe it’s everything.

  Last night was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. It wasn’t just that the show was amazing. It’s that I finally felt Grace becoming undone. She wraps herself so tightly, afraid to let go, afraid to feel because her feelings seem too big for her body. She’s consumed with her darkness sometimes, as I suppose it can be for writers. And I can’t blame her, because she seems to have gone through so much.

  But she let herself be free with me last night.

  It’s probably too much to ask for it again.

  I jerk my head to the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  I head down the stairs and see Vanni lounging on the couch, reading a book. When he sees us, he sits up straighter. “Are you sure I can’t go with you?” he asks with pleading eyes.

  “Was the concert not enough?” I chuckle. “And you have been before. You remember? Lots of adults, no kids. You’re not allowed to touch anything.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No eating either. I don’t trust you not to get cheese on all of my statues.”

  He nods at that, understanding. “Okay. At least here I can eat.”

  “Where is Emilio?”

  He shrugs. “I think he’s cleaning the pool.”

  “Okay, well you listen to your uncle,” I remind him. Not that Vanni is ever a troublesome kid, but I know one day he’s going to give me a run for my money.

  Grace gives him a little wave. “Ciao, Vanni.”

  “Ciao, ciao, ciao,” he says with a dismissive wave, then with a heavy sigh, picks up his book again and goes back to reading.

  We head down the outside stairs to the Ferrari parked below. I open her door for her, and a vicious thrill runs through me, the sight of her, in that dress, getting in my car. Too sexy for words.

  I shut the door and swallow hard, needing to compose myself yet again. Thankfully once we get to the gallery, we will no longer be alone. In some ways, I can’t trust myself not to do or say the wrong thing when I’m alone with her, which is why I’ve been trying to give her as much space as possible for the last while. Even last night we weren’t truly alone, and in the moments that we were … well, we were close to something we wouldn’t be able to come back from.

  But perhaps you won’t want to go back.

  “I can see why you choose to drive this over your other vintage cars,” she comments as I get in my side, buckle up, and start the engine.

  I flash her a smile. “You haven’t been in the others.”

  She blinks at me, her eyes gleaming. “Maybe you’ll have to take me for a ride in all of them.”

  Damn. She’s not going to make this easier on me, is she?

  “If you’re a good girl,” I tell her as the car roars out of the driveway. “Maybe.”

  “A good girl?” she repeats, looking incredulous. “I’ll have you know you can’t get more of a good girl than me.”

  “I believe it,” I tell her, my eyes flitting over her chest as the Ferrari bumps along the rough road.

  Also, I believe I told myself to stop flirting with her.

  It’s fucking hard.

  “Do you think it’s going to rain?” she asks, staring out the window at the dark clouds. “The air feels electric.”

  As does the air between us, here in this car.

  I’m about to answer her, but there’s another crack of thunder, and like God was trying to prove a point, the clouds spill over.

  We’re immediately engulfed in a torrential downpour, rain soaking the streets, my windshield wipers working overtime.

  “You are something magical,” I tell her. “God listens to you.”

  She makes a snorting sound, gazing at the rain streaming down the windows.

  “You really are, Grace,” I go on, my hands feeling damp on the steering wheel. “You sell yourself short but your work is phenomenal. You’re a true creator.”

  She shoots me a wry gaze, just as I knew she would. “You haven’t read my work.”

  “But I have,” I tell her. “I read every book, from Dopo Tutto Sei Arrivato Tu, all the way to your last, Tutti Muoiono a Volte.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know what those are.”

  “Those are the Italian titles for The Mystery of Princess Street and To Catch a Killer.”

  She rubs her lips together, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. She doesn’t believe me.

  “Go on, ask me anything,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “I mean it. I’ve read them all.”

  “Fine. What is Caroline’s cat’s name?”

  “Mr. Claw.”

  “Okay. You could have read a review. What is the name of the guy that Susan dates in book three?”

  I have to think for a moment because that character was all over the place. “George?”

  “James,” she says. “Nice try.”

  ‘That is not fair. Ask me something else.”

  “All right.” She drums her fingers along her thigh, thinking. “Tell me what your favorite part was. In any of the books.”

  “I have many favorite scenes, but my favorite part is your character. Caroline.”

  “How did you know I wrote her?” she asks quietly.

  “She has your stamp all over her. She’s thoughtful and observant. That’s why she’s such a good detective. But she loves with all her heart. She cares very much for her partner. And she’s not a, how you say, doormat. She’s strong when she needs to be, and when she knows what’s right. That is just like you.”

  Grace stares at me for a moment, her eyes growing wet with tears. Then she looks away, out the window.

  Something about her breaks my heart. Something I wish I had the power to fix.

  “You did read them,” she says after a moment.

  “Would I lie to you?” I say. “You know we are both terrible liars.”

  “That’s true.” She glances at me, eyes soft. “I can’t believe you read them. Why?”

  “How could I not? I have a famous author staying in my house, the least I can do is read her work.”

  She seems touched by that, her fingers resting gently against her chest.

  Good.

  It’s not long before we’ve parked. Only problem is, you have no choice but to park outside the walls of the city, which means it’s at least a five-minute walk to the gallery.

  It’s still pissing down with rain.

  I turn off the engine and the sound of the rain hitting the roof engulfs us. The windows are already fogging up. The electricity outside the car is no match for the building electricity inside.

  “Shall we wait it out?” Grace asks.

  The space between us feels smaller and tighter than ever.

  “We can,” I tell her, my voice feeling too harsh, too loud, for this small space.

  “You might be late for your event,” she notes. Her pupils are wide, overtaking the pale blue of her eyes, and though she gives me a small smile, there’s something strained about it.

  “This is true. But we don’t have an umbrella.” I pause, licking my lips. “And it would be a shame if you got wet. No?”

  She visibly swallows, eyes brightening for a moment. Then she puts her hand on the door handle. “I say we go for it.”

  So then we do.

  I get out of the car and take off my suit jacket, running to her side, water s
plashing on my legs. I immediately hold the jacket high above her head, trying to protect the both of us the best I can.

  “But you’ll get wet,” she protests.

  I put my arm around her, pulling her right up to me, the only way the both of us will be somewhat sheltered. “It’s not the end of the world. Let’s go,” I say, and we head off through one of the arches that lead into the city.

  As we walk, the rain becomes less of an issue. It’s still pouring, but the only thing I can think about is Grace, the feel of her body pulled close to mine. She fits against me perfectly, and it feels easy and natural and … right. Like it’s always been this way, like it should always be this way.

  But, by the time we finally reach the gallery, reality comes rushing back. My shirt is soaked and she’s quite wet as well.

  She shoots me a grateful, albeit anxious, glance as I knock at the door to the gallery.

  “Thank you for that,” she says. “But you look like a drowned rat.”

  Carla opens the door, her eyes wide.

  “Mio Dio!” she exclaims, holding the door open. “Entra, entra!”

  We rush inside, dripping water onto the floor.

  “You are soaked!” Carla cries out. “No umbrella?”

  I shrug, taking my jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack by the front door. “All the hot weather has been misleading.”

  She looks us up and down, shaking her head. “Okay. So you need to go dry off. I need to run out and get some more Prosecco. We have everything else set up.”

  She gestures to the tall quartz table in the middle of the gallery where all the appetizers have been set up. Then she grabs the umbrella by the door. “I will be back soon. Guests won’t arrive for another half hour, so you have time.”

  Then she gives us another pitying glance and leaves, running out under her umbrella into the rainy cobblestone streets.

  “Come on, let’s towel off,” I tell Grace.

  Against my better judgement, I reach down and grab her hand, leading her through the gallery to the store room at the back. There are a few statues in here that there’s no space for on the floor, and they loom around us like ghosts. Against one wall are stacks of paintings covered with paper—prints, not originals—and there’s a shelf crammed full of shipping and packing supplies for orders.

  I leave her in there for a moment and head across the short hall to the toilet where I grab some white fluffy hand towels. I know Carla had put them there for the guests tonight. She often does a great job in prepping the space on nights like tonight, though I know she didn’t plan on me using them all to towel ourselves off.

  When I come back to the storeroom, Grace’s back is to me, studying a statue. It’s life-sized, a copy of the Farnese Hercules.

  I close the door behind me, taking a long moment to admire the curve of her ass in that dress, and she looks at me over her shoulder, nodding at the statue. “He’s so lifelike. His beard. The skill you have…”

  “It’s a copy,” I tell her, standing behind her. “I didn’t create him. He was already created. I just copied. I wasn’t the first one, of course. The Ancient Romans liked this statue so much that copies of it were found all over the world, a thousand years ago.”

  “You still need an insane amount of skill,” she says. She turns around to face me, a sly smile playing across her face. “Don’t sell yourself short. Remember?”

  I ignore that by reaching out with the towel and pressing it against her chest. “You aren’t too wet,” I tell her. A heavy sense of anticipation seems to pulse around us, and I can’t be the only one who feels it.

  “You’re soaked,” she says, her voice shaking slightly, breathless. Her chest rises and falls against my hands.

  I press the towel against the soft swell of her breasts, and my dick immediately hardens against my fly, threatening to send me over the edge, an edge I’ve been flirting with for a long time.

  I have a hard time speaking. “It will dry.”

  I pause with the towel at her collarbones, my eyes drifting up to hers. They’re wide, glimmering with something I want too badly to believe. Then I look to her neck, her hair. Finally I glance at the statue behind her.

  “I want to ask you for a favor,” I tell her, my throat feeling thick.

  She blinks at me, mouth parting. “What?” she asks softly.

  I take the towel and put it over my shoulder before I place my hand at her neck, letting my fingers trail up the curve to her ear.

  Her eyes fall closed and I reach back, winding my fingers through her hair before making a fist and pulling it off her neck.

  “You have no idea how perfect you are,” I whisper. “Your skin. Your bones. Your build. You’re art, Grace. And I think you might be my muse.”

  Her eyes open, brows raising. “Your muse?”

  I nod, sucking on my lower lip. Her gaze drops to my mouth. “Sì. La mia musa. But you do more than inspire me to work. You inspire me to make art out of you. I would like to sculpt you, Grace Harper.”

  Her mouth falls open. “Me?”

  She really doesn’t see it. There is something so beguiling about that, how someone who possesses so much charm and beauty can be so fully unaware of it. It’s both a shame and a mystery.

  “You,” I tell her, taking another step closer until I’m pressed up against her, and I know she can feel how hard I am against her hip. I see it with the slight flare of her nostrils, the heat peppering her liquid eyes. “I want to sculpt you. I want to make a copy of your beauty, of your soul, for the world to see.”

  “I … I don’t…” she stammers.

  “Yes,” I tell her. There are dark smudges beneath her eyes where the rain has mixed with her mascara, and I cup her small face in my hands, running my thumbs gently under her eyes, wiping it away. “You, Grace. You.”

  I was so close to kissing her last night that I’m not letting another opportunity pass me by.

  I lean in, my face closing the gap between us, and kiss her. It is soft at first, my lips pressing against hers, taking her in like fine wine. Her mouth is warm, beautiful, and relaxes instantly, her lips opening against mine. My tongue slides in, feeling her mouth, while the need that’s been building inside me threatens to overtake us both.

  I let it.

  I press my fingers harder into her face, sucking her lower lip into my mouth like it’s a piece of sweet candy.

  My sweet Grace.

  But I can’t be so sweet anymore.

  The desire crashes over me, like it just realized what’s happening, that I have her in my hands, that my mouth is devouring hers. My lips grow hungrier, our tongues moving at a faster, more frenzied pace.

  A hand drops to her breast, pulling down one side of her bustier, delighting in the soft flesh, while my other hand slips down to the back of her neck, holding her in place while our kiss gets rough and messy and wet.

  Her hands have been static this whole time but now they reach for my collar, tugging on the damp corners, pulling herself to me. My cock rubs against her through my pants and she lets out a breathless moan against my lips.

  “I’m back!” Carla’s voice divides us like an axe swinging down.

  Shit.

  We break apart, breathless.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on.

  Disoriented.

  “Claudio?” Carla asks, her heels clacking across the gallery floor as I hear her approaching the room.

  Grace and I stare at each other, wide-eyed, breathing hard. My mouth burns from her lips and I slowly rub my fingers across it for a moment before I yell back to Carla. “We’re in here!”

  Grace seems to snap out of her daze, and she immediately turns around facing the statue, discreetly tucking her breast back into her dress.

  But me, I stand there like a man on the verge of becoming undone. The first threads were pulled, the rest of me is waiting to follow.

  The door opens and Carla pokes her head around the corner and looks at us in surprise.
“Oh, Claudio. How are you still wet? You’re going to need another shirt.”

  At least it’s keeping her attention from my pants, where my dick is fighting to get out, aching for Grace and impossible to control.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

  “Ah, here,” Carla says, walking across the room and pulling out a basket from the shelf. She hands me a blow dryer from inside it. “We have this in case any paintings get wet. Here, dry it off.”

  I take it from her hands. “Grazie, Carla.”

  “Grace,” she says to her sweetly, “can you help me set out the Prosecco?”

  “Of course,” Grace says quickly. She follows Carla out of the room, shooting me a quick, furrowed glance as she does so.

  I stare at nothing for a few moments, trying to compose myself. I then unbutton my shirt, taking it off so that I can dry it with the blow dryer. It’s a shame Grace had to leave. I remember the way she looked at me when I took my shirt off around her before, back in my studio. She did what she could to hide the lust in her eyes, almost as if it shamed her. I want to bring that lust back, no shame, just surrender.

  And yet when I was kissing her, she was giving herself to me.

  She was surrendering.

  I just hope that the kiss won’t push us back.

  I want to move forward with her.

  But I don’t know what she wants.

  When the shirt is somewhat dry, I pull it on and head back into the gallery.

  I thought that things would settle between us after we kissed, that I wouldn’t feel as nervous anymore, but the anxiety is back and bigger than ever.

  Everything is set up, with Grace and Carla having a glass of Prosecco and chatting. For a brief moment, I think about how they would make wonderful friends, and I picture a future in which Grace never has to leave.

  It makes my anxiety wane, just a little.

  Jesus, how will I ever get over that kiss?

  “Here is the man of the hour,” Carla says, plucking a glass of Prosecco off the table and handing it to me. “Cin cin.”

  The three of us make a toast and clink glasses, but my eyes are locked on Grace. She’s been such an open book, but right now, when I really need to know, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

  “Looks like we have our first guest,” Carla says excitedly.