One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  As I get in position, he turns around and scoops up the roses, taking great care to place them in my arms, even while I hold the glass. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of roses and almonds, and the salty scent of his sweat, mixed with sun-warmed skin.

  My hormones immediately go into overdrive.

  As if he notices this, he reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ears, his eyes then resting on my lips. “Yes, this might be quite complicated.”

  He’s answering a question he already had in his head, and I don’t have to wonder what it could be.

  But if some tiny part of me thought he might kiss me again, I’m rebuffed when he pulls back and gets to work.

  I wish I could see what he’s doing, since the back of the clay model is to me, but it’s just as good watching the expression on his face. This is where he’s coming alive, his brows knitting together, his jaw tense, the focus in his dark eyes stark and brooding. He is the epitome of concentration, mixed with periods of mania, where his eyes look at me and light up, and I feel like I might be the most precious thing in the world to him.

  I hope he’ll still look at me like that when this is all said and done.

  Eventually he pulls back, taking a break. He wipes the sweat off his brow and plucks the glass from my hand. He turns around to fill it up, his shirt damp and sticking to him.

  “You can get up, if you wish,” he says to me, handing me the glass back. “I need to direct the fans over here. It is getting too hot.”

  I stand up, shaking out my legs that were on the verge of falling asleep, then take a big thirsty gulp of wine. It’s not as cold as it was, but it tastes just as good. He unplugs the fan and brings it over, aiming it at the floor.

  “I don’t want to disturb your hair or the roses too much,” he explains. “But it is damn hot.”

  “When can I see?” I ask him, nodding at the clay.

  “Not yet,” he says. “Not until I have the basics. It is still a very rough draft.”

  That I get.

  I sit back down, adjusting the roses.

  He frowns and stops in front of me. Reaches out to touch my shoulder. He slides a clay-dried finger under the strap and lets it fall down my arm.

  “Mmmhmm,” he muses.

  He takes his hand and then places it at my neck. Slowly trails his rough, textured fingers down to my collarbone, leaving a trail of clay in its wake.

  His palm then slides down over my shoulder, over my arm, down to my hand, investigating each finger.

  He takes the glass of wine from me and has a quenching sip himself before he places it behind him on the table. Then he takes my hand, holds it for a brief moment, fingers intertwined, before he places it on my lap by the rose stems, posing me.

  “Do you know,” he says slowly, the words spoken with deliberation, “that I didn’t sleep at all last night?”

  His hand goes to my waist, settling against the curve. He holds it there for a moment.

  I’m almost too afraid to speak, like if I do, some magic will dissolve. “No?” I remember him going to his studio, right after he kissed my palm. “Too busy working?”

  He shakes his head, eyes following his hand as it goes up my side. “Working? No. I didn’t go into the studio to work. I went into the studio to take my mind off of you. But I could not.” He wets his lips again, his hand now at my breast.

  I instinctively hold my breath, my heart thundering in my head. Woosh woosh woosh.

  His eyes skirt up to my mouth.

  “I could not sleep because all I could think about were these lips. I wondered when I’d get the chance to taste them again. I wondered, perhaps, if I’d ever know what they’d feel like wrapped around my cock.”

  Holy.

  He didn’t.

  My eyes go so wide that they hurt.

  “My boldness makes you nervous?” he says, his thumb now brushing over my nipple, causing me to bite my lip, holding back a groan. My body betrays me, squirming, as my legs try to quell the building pressure.

  “No,” I say breathlessly.

  “Does it turn you on?” he asks, his thumb circling, causing my nipple to tighten through the fabric, an arc of pleasure that radiates down the rest of my body.

  I can barely swallow, barely talk. “Yes,” I hiss.

  “Just checking,” he says, a hint of a wicked smile on his lips.

  His fingers wrap around the neckline of my dress. With one fluid motion, he yanks it down, my breasts bobbing free.

  He stands back, staring at me, at my chest, bare and flushed, nipples in tiny pink peaks, his gaze alternating between inspired and desire. Perhaps there’s never been that much of a difference between the two.

  “So fucking perfect,” he says, holding out his hands as if to frame me, while I sit there, breathing hard.

  I swear to god, if he tries to go back to sculpting…

  But instead he bends down, placing his mouth over my nipple, and I almost fall off the stool. He sucks on one while he plays with the other, the other hand at the small of my back to keep me in place. It’s like a jolt straight between my legs, making me buzz with electricity, causing my thighs to part.

  Then his mouth comes up to mine, stealing the breath from me. He tastes like my skin, mixed with a hint of salty clay, and his lips engulf mine with the kind of passion that makes me ache. It’s a wet, rough kiss, a little unrestrained, a little messy. The fevered intensity starts to rise inside me, intermingling with butterflies in my chest.

  I want this man like I’ve never wanted anything before.

  His hands disappear into my hair, holding me firmly at the back of my head, while I submit myself to him, to this kiss, to wherever this man is going to take me.

  He pulls back, placing hot, wet kisses beside my lips. “La mia musa,” he whispers hoarsely. “You are better than art.”

  Then he crouches down, throwing up the hem of my dress and ducking his head under it. So when I said I’d submit to wherever this man takes me, I didn’t think he’d immediately put his head between my legs.

  But I’m not complaining.

  I gasp, his hands running up the insides of my thighs, spreading them with a firm grasp. He pauses, his stubble tickling my sensitive skin, inches away from where I’m bare and most certainly wet.

  Next thing I know, his hands are gathering the hem and pushing it up and around my waist. Now I’m really exposed.

  I grip the edge of the stool with one hand, shocked by the intimacy, the sight of his dark hair between my legs. Rarely did my boyfriends go down on me in the past, mainly because they never seemed into it, and I was always self-conscious of myself.

  Looking at Claudio now, I’m in a state of shock, but it’s a state that dissolves into want. It’s like I never even knew what I wanted until I had it.

  And I have it.

  His fingers dig into the tender flesh of my hips, while his thumbs keep my legs open for him. I’m breathless in anticipation, the waiting turning into yearning, turning into dying for his contact.

  When it comes, all the air leaves my lungs.

  His mouth is soft and wet over my clit, tentative, taking his time. My back arches, pushing myself into his mouth, like I have no control over my body anymore. The only thing I can do is grip the edge of the stool with my own hand until my knuckles turn white.

  Then…

  Fuck.

  He takes me into his mouth and sucks me gently and I’m crying out, “Oh my god,” and I drop the roses. I absently watch as they tumble over his head and spill onto the floor, and then I’m gripping the edge of my seat with my other hand, like I’m afraid I might float right up to the ceiling.

  He pulls back enough, his eyes piercing as they meet mine. “Does that feel okay?”

  There isn’t even a hint of irony in his voice.

  Does it feel okay?

  I can’t talk. I just nod.

  Then the sly grin appears on his lips. “Just checking.”

  His grip gets tighter, and this
time he sucks me harder, causing me to moan. Loud. My hands go to his hair, holding him tight.

  “Is this to go harder? Slower?” he murmurs against me, the vibrations spreading through me.

  “Just … keep going,” I whisper harshly, my neck going back, my eyes falling closed.

  Dear. God.

  He alternates between kisses and licks, his tongue swirling until the pressure is at capacity and I can’t hold back anymore.

  “Oh god, yes,” I cry out, my words sounding feverish and foreign, like someone else is speaking through me. I’ve never been someone who vocalizes during sex, and now, from him going down on me, I want to tell him all the dirty things I want done to me.

  But my mind can’t even form sentences. Not when his licking intensifies, when he starts sucking me harder, and harder and then … then…

  I’m coming.

  The orgasm tears through me, making my limbs shake, my body on the verge of completely letting go and falling onto the floor. It’s all too much, my thoughts and feelings are scrambled, and every physical part of me feels like it’s been shot into space and back.

  “You taste like sin,” Claudio says to me as he gets up. He leans in, putting his hand at the back of my neck and kisses me, until I taste myself too, the salty and sweet. “Except I know your sin is heaven sent.”

  He steps back, and I sit there, trying to catch my breath, half off the stool, the roses at my feet.

  He starts to unbutton his shirt, eyes locked on mine, brimming with raw lust. His shirt sticks to him with sweat, and he pulls it off, throwing it on the ground. He then unzips the fly of his jeans, slowly. Too slowly. And even though my body still feels raw from the orgasm, I’m getting turned on all over again, like the desire inside me is a switch that’s never fully off.

  “Are you on the pill?” he asks, voice low and husky.

  I swallow. Nod. “Yes.”

  I’m actually on it for my skin, mostly, though I figured it would never hurt if I got involved with someone. Of course that opportunity never came. Until now.

  “Good,” he says.

  Slides his jeans down until he’s in his briefs.

  My eyes are glued to his hands as they slowly rub down against his cock, which is large and outlined against the grey fabric.

  I gulp.

  Lord have mercy on me.

  He steps out of his jeans, and since he works barefoot, he’s already half-naked.

  Then he pulls down his briefs, really making this into a show.

  A show worth any cost of admission.

  I’ve been taught that if you see a man’s penis, you should politely turn your head. No one wants you to stare.

  But I can’t take my eyes off it.

  And it’s obvious Claudio wants me to look. He’s proud … and for good reason.

  His cock is large, thick, and vaguely threatening. Like, if I don’t treat it well, it’s capable of some very sweet, severe punishment, the kind that keeps you coming back for more.

  Eventually I close my mouth and look up and into his eyes.

  Of course he’s got the cockiest grin. A cock like his would do that to you.

  I swallow, rubbing my lips together, my entire body tense and on edge, wondering what’s going to happen next.

  “Turn around,” he says, his voice dropping, becoming rough. His smile fades. “Bend over the stool.”

  I stare at him, mouth agape again.

  He stares right back, sliding his fist over his cock, his eyes squinting in pleasure as he reaches the thick base.

  I am in trouble.

  Somehow, I manage to get to my feet and turn around, bending over the bench so my behind is to him.

  “No, no,” he murmurs. “That won’t do. Pull up your dress. Let me see your ass.”

  I reach back and start tugging up the hem of my dress until it’s gathered around my waist. I have to say, it’s a wee bit easier to be on display this way when I can’t see his expression.

  That said, I can feel it. His eyes are practically burning my skin.

  Silence hums between us.

  Finally he clears his throat. “I’m beginning to think that perhaps this is what I should sculpt.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I tell him, adjusting myself so that my boobs aren’t as squished against the seat of the stool. “Are you just going to stand there or what?”

  So bold, Grace.

  And yet I don’t care. I don’t feel like myself right now. In fact, I haven’t really felt like myself since I got here. It’s all been leading to this moment, the chance to really do something freeing. To do something for myself.

  Getting fucked by Claudio might be the best self-care possible.

  “I don’t like to be rushed,” he says, his voice sounding like silk as it cascades over me. “I like to take my time. I have wanted this, dreamed about this, got off to this, and I am in no hurry for it to be over.”

  But then I hear him walk forward.

  A grunt of appreciation.

  He runs his hand over the smooth curves of my cheeks. “You have tan lines from being in the sun. I don’t know why this is so sexy. Like I am seeing something I’m not supposed to.”

  He pauses.

  Then…

  WHACK.

  I jerk up, my fingers gripping the edge of the stool as the sting from his slap shoots through me.

  The bastard just spanked me!

  “Did you like that?” he asks, running his hand gently over where he just slapped me. “Was it too much?”

  There is so much rough desire brimming in his voice, but at the same time, I hear his concern. Like he’s actually worried.

  “Wasn’t too much,” I manage to say, licking my lips. “Do it again.”

  I practically hear him grin.

  WHACK, WHACK!

  Both cheeks get it and I let out a cry of pain and pleasure. The sting somehow makes me focus on him, on what’s happening, on the feeling, instead of wondering. It’s like it’s anchoring me to this moment.

  Anchoring me to him.

  After a few more hits, he leans down and places his mouth where my skin is burning, soothing it with his lips and tongue, making me melt into a puddle of want. I want him inside me so badly, I’m positively aching for him.

  “So,” he muses, pulling back as I feel a hand move to my hip, encasing me in his large, warm palm.

  I wonder where his other hand is going, and then I feel it between my legs, stroking me.

  I gasp, unable to stop the sound.

  “You are so wet,” he says. “I was worried that I wouldn’t fit, but perhaps I might now.” He slowly inserts his finger inside me, one, two, three.

  “Fuck,” I cry out.

  “Say it again.”

  “Fuck.” I pause. “Fuck me.”

  He chuckles, a wicked sound. “I never thought I would hear you say such words, with so much desire. Of course, all you ever had to do was ask.”

  His fingers pull out and I tense up, just as I feel his grip tighten around my hip, and the hard press of his cock teasing my wetness.

  Then he pushes in, achingly slow. I tense around him, unable to relax, trying to breathe through it. I think if he went any faster, I would be impaled.

  “Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice breaking. “It feels so good, musa.”

  I make a strangled noise, trying to nod. I take in a sharp breath through my nose, forcing my muscles to relax. I feel like I’ve been revirginized, it’s been that long, and Claudio is a big boy to start with.

  He pushes in to the hilt until I feel the soft press of his balls against me, and then he’s slowly pulling out. Achingly and teasingly slow. His breath is long and steady, but while I’m breathing to relax, to accommodate his girth, he’s most likely breathing to stay in control.

  I like that he’s in control here. I like that I’m bent over this stool in his studio, surrounded by his art, and he’s taking me from behind like this. I don’t have to think, I can just be.

&n
bsp; I can just enjoy him.

  “Fuck,” he murmurs through a strained groan, then lets loose a few Italian words I don’t understand. I don’t need to understand them. Their dramatic cadence tells me it’s all about desire.

  He starts pumping in a bit faster now, his grip holding strong. In and out, his hips press against me, and my mind wanders to how this must look from behind, the bronzed strong muscles of his ass flexing as he pounds me.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  “Grace,” he says roughly, but he doesn’t say anything else.

  We lapse into silence, the sound of his skin slapping against mine, the wet sound of his cock as the small thrusts get longer, harder. Delicious little grunts come from deep within him, turning me on even more, and then his hand slips under and finds my clit.

  I moan loudly, and it seems to fill the room.

  “You’re so perfect,” he says, his fingers stroking my clit in circles. “Your skin, your cunt. If you could see what I see, the way I move inside you…”

  He picks up the pace, working me harder, his cock sliding against me with each pass, the pressure from his fingers increasing.

  I won’t be able to hold on for much longer. The ache is building, starting in my belly and moving to my spine, and I’m opening wider and wider.

  “I’m close,” I manage to say, not knowing if he needs a warning.

  He just grunts again at that, going faster now, rougher.

  Another whack as he spanks me, and it brings my mind around, and then his fingers go back to work. I feel like I’m the matchbook and he’s the match, and if he strikes me just right one more time…

  Suddenly the stool starts to rock, unable to keep steady from the unrestrained pounding I’m taking, and I’m almost falling off of it.

  Claudio lets out a frustrated growl, and before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbing me by the hair and pulling me off the stool. He throws out his arm so it knocks the stool over, and it goes skittering across the floor.

  Without the stool beneath me, I’m being held up by a large fistful of my hair for a moment. Then I’m quickly lowered to the floor where my elbows and knees are digging into the spilled roses. My face is pressed into the petals, and I take in the heady whiff of my namesake flower while Claudio continues to fuck me, still deep inside.