“Sit, sit,” she gestured and said in halting English. “Boar, eat.”
We thanked her and sat at the wooden table, scarred from a lifetime of knives, forks, and candlewax. The woman pushed an earthen bowl of olives toward us and poured two small cups of deep red wine. I felt too jittery and excited to sit still and munch politely, however.
“Scusi, Signora. Can I help?” I asked, going over the brick oven the woman stood inspecting. I mimed rolling dough and the woman smiled at me.
“Pasta?” she asked.
“Sì, I can help.”
She handed me an apron after I washed my hands and explained the pasta of the region, which I’d actually never had before. Another mystery.
“Pici pasta,” she explained. “Flour and water only.”
We rolled out the dough using a wine bottle and cut the strips with a knife. Liam helped roll the thick strips into round snakes like pottery class, and we sat back as she dumped them into salted boiling water for a minute and then into the boar bolognese to finish cooking with a little of the starchy pasta water and a flurry of cheese from a gigantic wheel.
While we ate, we talked. After a lot of Google translate, we figured out she was not my aunt—or any Romero. My grandparents had died a decade ago, which I knew, and they’d sold the farm to this woman Martina and her husband, now dead these last few years. They grew most of their own food and bottled their own wine. Martina rarely went in town for anything more than friendship and gossip.
She ladled the meaty sauce and pasta into bowls and urged us to eat another helping with a handful of basil ripped over the top. We sat, smiling in mostly silence, but it was the peaceful sort only achieved in the most perfect of circumstances.
“Mio papa died last year. I went looking to find his family.”
“To lose a parent is difficult,” she said gravely in Italian as we ate. “I am sorry for you.”
“Grazie.” I nodded my thanks.
Martina looked at me for a moment. “They say Luca Romero had profondo dolore.”
“Sorrow?” I said, translating poorly.
Martina pointed to her breast. Her heart, I realized. “Here. Great sorrow. He loved a girl, but it was not returned. You see, she loved a different Romero. His… fratello… brother.”
My head jerked back, like a shot to the core. My father had a brother?
“Sì. He left for America to never remember, they say.”
That was not the story I thought I knew. I always heard that my parents met in Italy and came to America together. Martina knew nothing else, since my father never returned. Never spoke to his brother again.
After an hour, we thanked her profusely and got back on our mopeds. My mind whirred. We went slowly, allowing for lots of admiring of the Tuscan countryside and talking, and once I started talking about my dad, I couldn’t stop.
“My father never let on about his great sorrow. To me, he was amazing. I know most people say that once someone is dead, like they forget the bad, but he really was. He wasn’t too machismo to get down and play American barbies with me or paint his nails. He was not a typical Italian father.”
I revved my moped, which felt as silly as it sounds. “When he died last year, I wasn’t sure if my mom would die of heartbreak next. Now, I want to know everything. Where did they meet? Did she know about this profondo dolore? I don’t want to ask a lot of hard questions. She’s made it through the worst of her grief, but now she sort of mopes about the house. This could set her back—especially if she didn’t know about it.”
Liam listened, just letting me work through and process. It made me feel safe, so I confided something that made me feel horrible but was the truth.
“It’s hard to tell her to keep going, but sometimes that’s all I want to do. My aunts and uncles come over, but it’s frozen lasagna and moonshine limoncello. Lots of it. She’s lost the zest of life that Italians enjoy so much. Worse, she’s afraid of everything. She never leaves the house.”
Liam coasted up next to me and pointed out a rabbit, hiding between the tall grasses by the road. We stopped to watch him nibble for a bit, and it felt extravagantly normal.
“I wish I knew what to say. Humans are hard. How about you ask her? It might help to talk directly about him.”
“Maybe. I really miss the moonshine. Not for the alcohol. Just what it symbolizes.”
Liam put his arm around my shoulders. “You don’t have to pretend you never drink around me. That wouldn’t be fair or normal. So. Why don’t you tell me how you make moonshine limoncello?”
“Lots of lemons and high grain alcohol. My mom uses Everclear, but vodka works. The good kind takes two months to brew, so we keep twenty bright yellow bottles in various stages of finish to always have one on hand. They used to dot the house, but not lately. The house looks duller without them. There’s no simmering Sunday sauce or light-hearted banter. Just a quiet emptiness. I love yellow. It’s so happy.”
I sniffed once. Shit. Don’t cry. Dad doesn’t need your tears. Don’t be a stewed tomato!
Liam’s voice was solemn. “Welcome to the Dead Dad’s Club. It sucks, and I’m not glad to have you. Membership is officially official when you cry in a foreign country over moonshine.”
I sniffed once more, but then realized something vital. Something that shifted our relationship. Liam had shared a personal detail with me. His dad was dead. “How old were you?” I asked quietly.
“Fifteen. Old enough that everyone thinks you’re the man of the house. Young enough not to know any better.”
“You tried to take care of everything.”
He nodded. “I was a teenager, so it was some unwritten rule that I couldn’t grieve by crying.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s life.”
Liam didn’t seem in the mood for more conversation, so I let him leave his story at that. When he was ready, he’d tell me. It was wild, but I knew that about him. He was private. Personal.
Me? On the verge of tears, my emotions written in every pore of my body, of course.
We got back on our mopeds and headed toward the villa. By the time we’d parked, I thought I’d burst. I did not want to run into anyone from the production team. I was definitely not in the mood for a “personal” filming segment. Italian American in Italy for the first time sort of bullshit. I’d kissed the ground once. Doing it again for a camera would sully it.
Liam couldn’t even hold my hand or kiss me. Someone might see and all my “personal” stuff would immediately refocus on our affair.
We snuck in through a side door. “I’m happy you asked me to go,” Liam said.
“Me too. I’m just sad I didn’t find what I was looking for,” I said, holding back tears. “Only more mysteries.”
“I think you did better than that. You did exactly what your dad would have done in that house, that village years ago. You ate. You laughed. You cried.”
“I did not cry!”
Liam tilted my head up with a finger. His eyes acknowledged the kindred spirit in my soul. With that look, he bent and kissed away the one teardrop on my cheek.
But once was never enough with us. After a quick check to make sure no one was around, I wrapped my arms around him and went in for the deeper, more lustful, more Italian version.
His clothes were already halfway to the ground by the time the door to my room was shut.
“I want this, Liam. Here, with you, in Italy.”
His sea green eyes looked almost black they were so dilated, and they stared at me in mutual want. A storm-tossed sea at night.
“No more messing around. I. Want. You.” I emphasized each word with another piece of clothing, gone to the floor.
“You’ll regret it,” he said, stopping. He sensed this wasn’t like before. I was serious and I knew what I wanted.
“How do you know my mind?” I asked. “I want this—this perfect day to end perfectly with you.”
Before he had another chance to tell me
why he was so wrong for this job, I stepped the rest of the way out of my clothes and unhooked my bra.
Liam looked me up and down, drinking in every curve and line. I moved to him, taking the rest of his clothes off as well and admiring his strong arms and defined abs. Not drinking alcohol did wonders for his physique.
With one hand, Liam rolled on a condom, intently watching my eyes for any second of hesitation. I knew in that moment he would stop right there if he thought I wasn’t ready. It made me delirious with desire.
I pulled him onto me, kissing fiercely. He accepted my surrender, and we hungrily pulled at each other, twisting across the bed and falling on the ground.
“Ouch!” I laughed. But before I could say anything else, Liam was on top of me, darting his tongue in and out of my folds, making me gasp and beg for more.
“I’m going to go slow, but it’s going to be hard for me,” he whispered in my ear. “You look so fucking perfect. If I hurt you, tell me to stop.”
I nodded, eyes wide.
“I’m serious. Tell me if it hurts,” he commanded.
I nodded again, knowing there was no way in hell I was going to do that.
“Say you understand, Clara. Say it.”
“I understand!” I practically screamed, writhing at having to wait.
He licked my nipple one last time, grinning at my moans. “I’ve got you nice and wet and ready. Don’t tense up.”
His tip was right there, positioned at my entrance. Then he was inside, and my whole body quivered at this new feeling of fullness. I didn’t realize he wasn’t even completely inside of me until he thrust deeper. He pulled out and slowly pushed in, once, twice, loosening me up, spreading my wetness.
I could tell it was taking all of his self-control not to turn me over and take me like a fucking whore. The thought that me, Clara Romero from Staten Island, AKA nobody, was bringing a great chef to his knees made my pussy clench again. Liam must have felt it because he growled like a caveman in response.
“You’re making this hard, sweetheart. I’m trying to be good, but fuck.” He shuddered, thrusting once, harder than he had before.
“Oh God, Liam,” I moaned.
“Should I pull out?” he asked. His green eyes were filled with concern, and it almost made me cry. But if there was at least one thing I knew from the movies, it was that you don’t cry before, during, or after sex. That was a lust-killer.
Do. Not. Cry.
“God, no. Never,” I assured him. “Don’t stop moving.”
Liam pulled out slowly anyway, sublime inch by inch, and I desperately clawed for him, already feeling empty.
Smirking, he thrust into me, and I screamed as he managed to find with his tip that one spot that made me forget my own name.
He increased the pace, fully thrusting and never breaking eye contact. He wouldn’t let me look away, like he needed to make sure I wasn’t lying. I never would.
I encouraged him, digging my nails into his ass as I pulled him as deep as he could go. “Yes, please, yes,” I begged.
He plunged over and over again, managing to circle my clit with a thumb as I felt the now-familiar hot vibrations beginning in my toes and climbing my body. Our rhythm synced, and it was a moment of clarity—that maybe it didn’t get any better than this. That maybe this was it.
Thinking was too terrifying, so I concentrated on his muscled torso, raking my bright red fingernails against it.
“Don’t… fucking… stop…” I panted.
So he went even slower, drawing out my torture. Drawing out my pleasure.
Liam took my hand and made me touch myself, and I rubbed like my life force depended on it. He went in and out, taking both of my breasts in his hands and massaging them.
Liam pumped into me and the added pressure of his pulsing cock took me over the edge. Stars burst in the blackness of my head as I closed my eyes and screamed his name.
“Liam!”
How was I making it through this? How was I holding on to my sanity at this moment? Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us sinners.
Liam finished spilling inside and pulled me close as I shook with a chill. Why was it so fucking cold all of a sudden? And how had my leg gotten tangled up in the sheet, half on the bed, while the rest of me was on the ground?
I felt the back of my head. Okay. That was definitely going to leave a mark.
I could barely remember anything except the feeling of Liam, filling my spaces perfectly. Clearly, I’d fallen off the bed at some point. Everything was fuzzy. Except the pleasure. That would stay crystal clear.
Unfortunately, so would the look of panic in Liam’s eyes. It was quick, but it’d been there.
Chapter Seventeen
Liam
San Gimignano, Italy
After fucking all night, we had marched blearily into the Tuscan sunshine the next morning for our first challenge of Italy—picking saffron. Boys versus girls, and we’d lost miserably. I blamed Jackson. He acted like a fucking diva and refused to get mud under his nails. Blaming Clara for keeping me up all night before our 6:00 a.m. call time didn’t seem fair, seeing as I had a large part to do with that.
Luckily, it wasn’t a do or die challenge, and everyone would be cooking in elimination this evening. The judges hinted gelato would be part of the challenge, so Clara and I decided to go tasting in the ancient medieval city of San Gimignano for lunch.
She arrived in my room overlooking a craggy hill of cypress trees wearing a pair of blue jeans and a flowing orange top that accentuated her golden tan. She was right. Orange really was her color.
A smile played at the corner of her mouth as she turned and locked my door.
“We should really be studying,” I said, not even believing myself.
“We will. I promise. But first, I want to study you.”
She unbuttoned her top and unzipped her jeans, leaving everything on, a tantalizing, half-wrapped present. I slipped my fingers under her bra and pulled the strap off her shoulders, kissing gently. Soon, her shirt was on the floor.
Clara pushed me to the rickety, spring bed with metal poles and straddled me naked from the waist up while I tried not to imagine tying her to the posts.
Not yet, at least.
She knelt, kissing me as she unzipped, and then wiggled out of her jeans and lace thong as well.
While it wasn’t exactly easy, I hovered above her, letting her control how much she took and how soon. She wrapped her hand around me and teased my tip at her entrance.
“I need you,” she murmured, dipping me inside of her. I shuddered and grabbed her thighs for stability.
“You have me,” I promised her.
She bit her lip, closing her eyes against the sensations as she drew me in a little more. “I want all of you,” she whispered, arching her back and bringing her hard nipples to brush against my chest, whimpering at the contact.
Our tongues fought for each other, and it took more self-control to keep myself from thrusting than it took to keep myself from drinking.
Three hundred and fifty-two days.
She took another inch of me, moaning. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed her hands and brought them to the rails of the headboard.
“Hold on, sweetheart,” I ordered.
Clara gripped the bars, her fawn eyes large and trusting.
“Don’t let go,” I said.
She nodded.
“You are mine,” I told her.
She was so hot and wet, I slid in easily. “Fuck, you feel perfect.”
Clara panted, eyes wide, and her knuckles gripped white around the bars over her head.
“Don’t let go,” I commanded again. I crashed into her, rocking in a strong rhythm that left her thrashing against the silky pillows.
Her tight walls swelled around my cock. I loved how easily she could come again and again for me, so I adjusted my angles, taking her slower, bringing her back down for a minute to catch her breath. The wild look in her eyes as she clawed at m
e to go faster was like catnip. Her throbbing pussy begged for me to finish, so I did.
With steady strokes, I pulsed into her, gasping as we came together. Immediately, she shuddered and collapsed, and I took her into my arms, softly kissing the crown of her head and hugging her tightly while her tremors faded.
“Mary, Mother of God, that is amazing. You make me feel like something I never knew existed.” She snuggled deeply into my arms, a tiny smile across her face. “We should do that more often.”
“We pretty much mess around three times a day,” I pointed out.
“Is that a problem?”
I replied with a kiss, not trusting myself to speak. Yes, it was a problem. I wasn’t taking this career-changing opportunity seriously enough, and neither was she. This relationship wasn’t good for either of us. So, when she asked me again about my life, I refused to let her in. Not even a crack. It wasn’t fair to share the burden.
“My childhood was probably the same as yours,” I lied. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t bore easily. As Zelda Fitzgerald wrote, ‘She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn’t boring.’ I always liked that quote. It wasn’t just F. Scott running the writing show.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she huffed. “How about you tell me what really happened at Wagyu?”
My rapid double-blink gave me away.
Clara pointed at me. “I knew it! It wasn’t because you tripped balls. Did you even eat all those artichokes?”
“That happened,” I responded reluctantly. I wasn’t about to trust her with my childhood, but could I trust her with the truth of my failure? She already had one version. Could she handle the real one?
At her expectant look, I continued, slowly. This woman constantly had me wanting to open up. There was only so much resistance left in me. “That all happened,” I repeated. “But it wasn’t me. It was the new sous chef. A young woman fresh out of culinary school.”
Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2) Page 8