One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  But I wait, letting her control how she wants to ride me. If It were up to me, I would fucking impale her with my cock right now, pull down her dress so that her tits bounce freely for all the passing cars to see. She’s all mine, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to show her off.

  It takes all my strength to hold it together, my fingertips pressing tighter into her soft skin until I’m sure I’m leaving a mark.

  She bites her lip, and I see the lust spread across her face and chest in flashes of delicate pink, like she’s been dusted with rose petals. Her eyes keep looking to the road. While I find the idea of people watching us to be exciting, her natural bashfulness is coming through, and I can tell when her mind is about to run away on her.

  “Hold on,” I tell her. I reach over and flip open the console, taking out a silk scarf I use to wipe down the dash with. I give the black fabric a shake and then reach up, placing it against her eyes. “Remember what we did before?” I ask her. “Block it all out. Focus on me. On your pleasure.”

  She gives me a slight nod, her lower lip getting a real workout as she worries it between her teeth. I tie the scarf behind her head.

  “There,” I whisper. “There’s nothing else but me.”

  She exhales and then grabs my cock, making my eyes roll back in my head.

  I relax against the seat, and she slowly, carefully lowers herself onto me.

  Fuck. Me.

  She’s so wet and needy, it’s easy to slide into her. I have to temper my impatience and try to go slow, not only so I don’t hurt her, but because I know if I just let myself do what I wanted, I’d be coming in less than a minute.

  Not that we have all the time in the world. It might be risqué to have sex in a parked car beside a busy road, but it’s also probably illegal.

  “Oh god,” she whispers, placing her hands on my shoulders to brace herself.

  “Does that feel good?” I murmur, my voice rough and desperate. “Tell me it feels good.”

  “Yes.” She breaks off into a gasp as she pushes herself down onto my shaft, harder this time. “Oh god, yes.”

  I want to slide into her one sweet beautiful inch at a time, but I don’t think that’s in the cards today. Instead I start thrusting upward, stiff, thick jabs that make her gasp for air, my hands going around her ass, nails digging in. We reach a sort of unity together, our rhythm matching each other as she bucks her hips into me, leaning back.

  “I’m close,” she manages to say, breaking off into a muffled cry.

  I stick my thumb in my mouth, wetting it, then slide it down between us, over her clit, rubbing hard and fast.

  “Fuck!” she cries out, her neck and back arched, her grip on my shoulders becoming vise-like. I watch the tremor pass through her, and even beneath the blindfold I can tell her eyes are pinched shut with exertion. Her pussy wraps tight around me, setting me off.

  I let myself go, coming with a thundering groan. Her rhythm slows, and I feel like … I don’t even know. I’m tired, panting, coming down from the highest of highs.

  A big truck roars past the car, making us shake, bringing me back to reality, that we’re parked on the side of the road, on the way to meet my parents.

  I push that all away.

  I don’t want to lose this feeling.

  I cup her face in my hands, and I kiss her. I kiss her hard and sweet, and there are too many emotions rolling through me to make sense of them, but kissing her makes the most sense of all.

  “I guess this isn’t the first time you’ve had sex in here,” she says against my lips. “This car is a chick magnet.”

  There’s so much vulnerability in her voice that it breaks my heart. I reach out and take off the blindfold until she’s blinking shyly at me.

  “I’ve never had sex in this car before,” I admit, adjusting myself, totally aware that I’m still inside her. I don’t want to pull out, not yet. “You’re the first one.”

  “Right.”

  “Musa,” I whisper to her, kissing her again. I pull back, searching her eyes, feeling everything inside threatening to spill over. “I want you. I want this. Always. Not just for now. I want so much from you that I’m afraid to ask … I don’t even think I’m worthy of asking.”

  She swallows, staring right back at me, her eyes bright and glassy. They don’t look fearful at all. “What do you want?” she asks after a beat.

  I place my hands at her heart. I can’t make myself say it but I hope that it’s enough.

  She gives me a small smile and then adjusts herself. I’m pretty much slipping out. “Oh boy,” she says, looking down. “So I guess there was a good reason you haven’t had sex in this car. We’ve made quite a mess.”

  I’m not proud to admit that a tiny part of me is cringing at the idea of having cum-stained leather in a million-dollar car, but I’m sure it will come out, and anyway, this was worth it.

  She tries to wipe it off with her dress and then moves over to her seat.

  “Okay,” I say, zipping up my pants and pulling my seat forward. We both buckle up. “Now that we had a little, uh, rest break, how about we continue on to my parents?”

  At that she looks worried, quickly reaching back and placing her sunglasses on, as if it will hide all her sins.

  Seventeen

  Grace

  Who are you? I say to myself as I stare into my compact, wiping away any smudges of mascara from underneath my eyes. I totally look like I just had a wild shag. My face is flushed, my pupils huge, my lip liner smeared. My eye makeup is a mess from having the scarf over it.

  And I have no idea who I am anymore.

  Not that it’s a bad thing, per se. I just know the Grace Harper of the past would never have sex in public. Twice. Doing it against those Roman ruins was one thing, but then fucking in his Ferrari on the side of the road? Who does that?

  Robyn would have done that, I remind myself. And she would have told you all about it, and you would have lived vicariously through her. Now you’re doing the things she would have done. You’re out here living.

  I dot powder on my shiny nose, blotting the perspiration on my forehead before I put the compact away. How is that the more sex I have with Claudio, the more alive I feel? Why didn’t anyone tell me that sex was the secret to a more interesting life?

  But, of course, it’s more than that. If I can just focus on the sex for now, it will be easier.

  “Almost there,” Claudio says as the car takes another bend.

  “Do you have, like, hand sanitizer or something?” I ask him. I wiggle my fingers at him. “I don’t think I should be shaking your parents’ hands.”

  He laughs. “Check the glove compartment.”

  I open it, and find a compact bottle of … leather cleaner. Well, at least it will come in handy for the stain I’m sure will remain on the seat. I take it out and spritz it onto my fingers anyway.

  “You are crazy,” he says, watching me.

  “You keep your eyes on the road,” I remind him. “This all happened because you couldn’t stay focused.”

  He licks his lips. “Oh? And that was a bad thing?”

  I look away, but I’m smiling.

  Then my smile fades as he slows and exits left onto a smooth dirt road bracketed by shrubs. Dust rises up behind us and the scenery opens up until we’re on a small peninsula, the shining blue sea spreading out on both sides.

  “Down there, that’s Cavoli,” Claudio says, gesturing to the right. I stare down at the curving bay, the red-tiled roofs clinging to the hillside before they end at a pebbly beach, umbrellas and sun chairs lined up along it. The water is achingly blue, like a swimming pool, and everything looks like the quintessential Italian paradise.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “There’s a path that leads down there from their house. It’s the only house on the whole peninsula. If you’re not too stuffed from my mother’s cooking, we can have an evening swim. The sun is out late.”

  I nod but start playing with the edge o
f my seatbelt, trying to work out my nerves.

  “Hey,” Claudio says, eyeing me. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “You didn’t tell them we are, you know…” I ask, even though we’ve already talked about this. I wanted to make this trip as low pressure as possible.

  He slows the car down as we crawl past a few low, scrubby trees and the occasional cactus. “No. I said I was bringing a friend.”

  “But you didn’t tell them I was a writer?”

  He shrugs. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He wets his lips with his tongue, taking his time to respond. “They don’t like Jana all that much. I don’t want them to dismiss you off the bat with the association.”

  “But what happens when they ask me what I do and how we met and all that?”

  “Let me handle it.”

  Hmmm. I don’t like this. On one hand, I guess I’m asking Claudio to hide our physical relationship from them, like we’re a pair of star-crossed lovers. On the other hand, I don’t like that he’s asking me to stay quiet about what I do. I mean, without my career, I’m pretty much … nothing.

  Finally, the dirt road turns to a gravel driveway and we pull into a parking spot beside a dark green Porsche 911. Vintage, naturally. Like father, like son.

  We get out of the car and I get a quick look at the house—a white ranch-style, with an orange roof, framed by mounds of lavender, rosemary, and coral daisies—before a woman comes bounding out of it, her arms wide open.

  “Claudio!” she calls out, making a beeline for him, and I’m struck by how she is the epitome of the Italian mother. She’s well-dressed in a yellow silk pantsuit, shoulder-length dark hair, with red lipstick. She pulls her son into an embrace, kissing both his cheeks over and over again, until Claudio is laughing, his hand on her bicep, trying to pull her off.

  “Mamma,” he says. “Per favore.”

  She grins at him and then suddenly her mood switches. She frowns and slaps him lightly across his face, and starts yelling at him about something in Italian.

  Claudio rolls his eyes, and it’s adorable how he’s automatically gone back into parent-child mode. I know it’s the same with me when I see my parents.

  “I told you, he didn’t want to come,” he says to her with a sigh. “He is sick of me.”

  Ah, she asked about Vanni.

  “Please,” he adds and gestures to me, “speak in English for Grace.”

  Oh god. I shake my head, trying to smile. “No, it’s okay. Please speak Italian. I am learning.”

  His mother looks at me, her frown deepening. “This is your friend?” she asks in disbelief.

  Eeep. I sure hope Claudio at least told them I was a woman.

  “Yes. Grace,” he says. “Remember?”

  “I remember,” she says, giving me the once over.

  Instinctively I smooth out my dress.

  She walks over and stops just a foot away. Her perfume is heavy and smells like gardenias. “Grace,” she says in her heavy accent. “Welcome to our home.”

  She places her hands on my shoulders, her bracelets jingling, and leans in to place a kiss on each cheek. I’m pretty sure her red lipstick marks are left behind, as they are all over Claudio.

  “Let’s get your bags,” she says, turning around and heading to the Ferrari. “Then I’ll show you to your rooms and we can have a nice aperitivo before dinner. Claudio, you know you will have to smoke a cigar with your father.”

  “Of course,” he says.

  We get our bags out of the car, and Claudio insists on carrying mine even though he’s grumbling about how much I packed. But hey, I’ve never been here before. I know it’s three days on Elba, but I’m better off packing six dresses just in case.

  Once inside, I grab my bag, and his mother ushers me down one of the halls. “This is your room, the guest bedroom,” she says. “Right next to our room. There’s a bathroom right across the hall that’s all yours.”

  The room is small and has a nice view of the lavender and rosemary out front.

  “Where is Claudio’s room?” I ask as I toss my bag onto the bed.

  “He’s down at the other end of the house,” she says, pointing down the hall. “Growing up here, he was the only one with a room to himself and his own toilet. You can imagine his sisters weren’t too happy about that. But he was the baby.” She sighs and then shrugs as she looks at me. “What can you do?”

  I want to hear more about Claudio as a child, but his mother tells me to freshen up and meet them on the terrace.

  I take the opportunity to get out of my navy “Ferrari sex” dress and put on a gauzy white one with long sleeves and a macramé neckline, perfect for island dressing. This time I remember my underwear.

  It’s going to be kind of weird not being able to sneak into Claudio’s room like we do at home. He said I was welcome to, and my room is the one we’d want to avoid being so close to his parents’ room and all, but even so I don’t want to risk it. I know it bothers him a little that I’m being so cagey about things, but it’s just how I feel at the moment.

  And I’m not sure if the moment will change while we’re here.

  I know that our fling is supposed to be no-strings attached, and meeting someone’s parents and being introduced as more than a friend are strings. What would happen down the line when this is all over and I’m back in my sad flat in Edinburgh, and his parents wonder what happened to me? What happens if Vanni gets wind of that, the fact that we were together behind his back and didn’t even tell him?

  Then there’s the fact that I care as much about his son’s opinion as I do Jana’s. He matters to me. So, as long as it can all stay a secret between Claudio and me, then we’re good. But if it goes beyond that, things get tricky. Once again, we can’t evolve into something more than sex. We can’t get serious.

  And I most definitely can’t fall in love with him.

  I swallow at that thought, my throat feeling caked in sawdust.

  I try to give that word, that feeling, as little power as possible, in the event that I end up manifesting it, in the event I start believing it.

  It will do neither of us any good.

  But you’ll still be powerless to stop it.

  I ignore that and clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, smooth down my hair, and leave the room.

  The house seemed to have one level at first, but there’s an open area leading down to another floor which seems to bleed out onto a terrace, dotted with potted plants, an awning overhead. Some of Claudio’s statues are in the corners, a pair of women rising from the waves. Four chairs are set up facing the sea, which sparkles between the bay below and the dark mound of Corsica in the distance. How neat that we’re so close to France.

  “There you are,” Claudio says, twisting in his chair to look at me, a cigar hanging from his fingers. “The guest of the hour.”

  I walk across to them, smiling at his mother and father, both of them getting out of their chairs.

  His father is the spitting image of him, just with white hair. A very handsome, distinguished looking man. Well-dressed too. He carries himself with a lot of confidence, his eyes sage and bright, but I guess that happens when you’re a famous painter.

  Sandro Romano.

  “Buona sera,” I tell him, since it’s nearly seven o’clock.

  “Ah yes. Ciao. Your Italian is very good, by the way,” he tells me, kissing me on both cheeks, the smell of his cigar tickling my nose. “Please sit down.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” his mother asks me as I sit down next to Claudio, quickly flashing him an appreciative smile. “Campari and soda?”

  “That would be lovely,” I tell her.

  “That’s a nice dress,” Claudio comments. His words sound innocent, but there’s no denying the glint of desire in his eyes.

  “Thank you,” I say innocently.

  “So, Grace,” his father says, and I turn my attention to him. “This is the first time you’ve been to Elba
?”

  “Yes. First time in Italy.” I pause. “Actually, I was in Rome for one night, but I got food poisoning on the way over and didn’t see any of the city.”

  “Ah, that’s not good. Rome is a wonderful place sometimes. What month was this?”

  “Uh, a few years ago. August.”

  He waves his hand at me and makes a dismissive noise. “Then you were better off. Rome in August is awful. Only tourists there. All the Romans are on holiday, they go elsewhere. Some even come here.”

  Well, that would have been good to know.

  “It’s just as well,” I tell him. “My partner managed to see the Trevi Fountain early in the morning, but then both of us were flying out.”

  It takes me a moment to realize I’ve just mentioned Robyn.

  “Partner? For work?” he asks, puffing on his cigar.

  Shit.

  “Aye,” I tell him, hoping he’ll leave it at that. “A work partner.”

  I glance quickly at Claudio, but he’s looking across the sea, his hand dipping into a bowl of olives that sits between us.

  A beat passes. “What kind of work do you do?” his father asks.

  I give him a quick smile. Here it goes. Maybe I can tell the truth without Jana even having to come up.

  “I’m an author.”

  “An author?” he exclaims, slapping his palm against his knee. “This is true? What do you write? What type of story?”

  “Murder mystery. I have a series called the Sleuths of Stockbridge.”

  “Ah. I don’t think I know it. You said you had a partner though?”

  “Yes. I wrote them with someone. Her name was Robyn. Together we were Robyn Grace. That’s the pen name.”

  I’m tense, waiting for the blow. Usually when I tell people I’ve written with someone, they get ready to treat me like it doesn’t count, like I got help with a book, that I didn’t do it on my own.

  But his father merely smiles. “That is fantastic. What a nice way to do art, is it not? To share the process of discovery with someone?” He sighs. “It is such a lonely profession. Even being a painter, it is so many hours in the studio or off on the land by yourself. You neglect every step of your life except the thing you’re trying to create. Because, of course, if you neglect the thing you are trying to create, you may never create it! It is like the muse. You have to beg for her to show, and when she does, you have to show her so much attention so she doesn’t leave you. Our life’s work hinges on that muse.” He pauses. “That fickle bitch.”