Nine Years Gone

by Shelly Cruz

“Yes, and yes. Thank you.”

  Massimo lifts the bottle of Absolut from the table and takes it into the kitchen.

  “I love Helmut Newton photography. You have some really nice ones. The black and white suits you,” I tell him.

  “Black and white photography is my favorite; it leaves an element of mystery. There’s room for interpretation when you’re looking at it. What color is the dress or the woman’s hair? Kinda like beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And life is never black and white, ya know?” I hear ice clink as he drops it into a glass.

  The more I learn about this man, the more I like him. I stand from my spot on the armrest and pad over to the kitchen’s entryway, leaning on the doorjamb. “I do. It’s one of the same reasons I love black and white photography too. Back in high school, I studied it for two years and spent hours in the darkroom. I wanted to go to the Mass College of Art for photography, but my parents quickly crushed that idea. They said they didn’t want me to be a starving artist, and I should study something that’ll help me in life.”

  “What did you study instead?” Massimo asks as he’s grabbing a soda bottle out of the fridge. When he twists the cap off, it makes the signature hissing sound of the pressure releasing.

  “At first, my major was Psychology because I didn’t know what to study. After taking a Women’s Literature class, I picked up English as a second major.”

  “Did you like it?” he asks while pouring soda water into the glass.

  I shrug. “I guess, although I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet, which is why I started bartending until I figure out what I want to do with my life.”

  He hands me the drink he just prepared for me. “Sorry, I don’t have any limes.”

  “I’ll survive. Thanks.” I take a sip and return to the living room.

  Massimo grabs a glass from the counter and goes back to the bar table to pour himself a Jack. When he’s done, he strides over to the couch, sits, and pats the empty space next to him. “Sit.”

  Doing as he asks, I sit next to him, lifting my legs onto the couch, tucking them to my left. “What about you? Did you go to school?” I ask.

  “Nah, wasn’t for me. My father wanted me to go work with him in landscaping, but I chose to go work at my uncle’s restaurant instead, which is how I got involved in the restaurant business.” He sips at his whiskey.

  “How old were you when you started working there?”

  “I was sixteen and worked as a busboy on Friday and Saturday nights. When I turned eighteen, I started waiting on tables and learning about the business, eventually bartending and helping my uncle with the ordering and inventory. By the time I was twenty-four, I was the assistant manager and started thinking about opening up my own place. I approached my brother and sister, and that’s how our idea took flight.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “We want to have several restaurants around the city. They’d all serve Italian food but will have different specialties. The one we just opened is traditional Italian, with food and wine from all over the country. Our next one, whenever we’re ready to open it, will be in the North End but will have a menu and wine list focused on the Roman kitchen since that’s where our parents are from.”

  “That’s awesome.” I swirl the liquid in my glass before drinking some more. “Do you speak Italian?” I ask him.

  “Not as much as I’d like to. My parents barely taught us growing up, although I wish they had. Took a few years of it in high school, but you know how that goes.”

  “How come they didn’t speak it at home?”

  “They wanted us to fit in, be American. They thought that by speaking Italian at home, we wouldn’t blend in.”

  “A lot of parents from that generation thought that way. I know a bunch of people who’ve told me the same thing you just did.”

  “What about you? Do you speak Spanish?” he asks.

  “Yes. My parents were the opposite. We weren’t allowed to speak English at my house. My parents would ignore us if we spoke English to them. Literally, if you asked a question in English, they would stare at you or walk away from you as if you’d said nothing. It was really annoying.”

  “Bet you’re glad they did though, because now you’re fluent, right?”

  “I am,” I say, nodding in unison with my words.

  “Say something in Spanish for me.” He puts his drink down on the coffee table and reaches for me, starts drawing circles with his fingers just above my knee.

  “Um, what do you want me to say?” The nerves pool in my belly, and I give my glasses a nudge with my left hand.

  “Anything, whatever you feel comfortable saying.”

  I look into his eyes and say, “Me gustas mucho y tengo ganas de besarte.”

  “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds sexy as fuck.” His hand moves from my leg up to my lips, and he drags his thumb firmly across my bottom lip. I open my mouth and pull his thumb in, swirling my tongue around his finger.

  “Jesus, Lena.” He takes the drink from my hands, puts it onto the coffee table, and then lifts my frames off, dropping them next to my glass. He draws me closer to him, and his lips crash into mine. He tastes like whiskey, and his breath is hot. I push my hands into his hair, tugging at its ends. Its thick, ink-black strands are a stark contrast to my olive skin.

  I separate from him, resting my forehead against his, and close my eyes, inhaling his unique scent. Before our date, I told myself that I wouldn’t sleep with Massimo tonight, but I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

  My body tingles all over, craving him—to touch, taste, and feel him. In the background, Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream” is playing. The melody of the music mixed with the vodka I’ve been drinking all night awakens the brave woman within me.

  I rise, extending my hand to his. He looks up at me; his eyes are dark, lust burning at their rims, and he stands as well. I walk toward the hall to the left of the foyer, where the bedroom is, holding Massimo’s hand behind me as he follows.

  In the hallway, there is another Helmut Newton photo hanging on the wall, a woman ascending a grand staircase with a black dress. The scoop back hangs low, revealing her entire back, the slit of the dress exposing the entirety of her left leg. The picture screams, “Follow me,” as you stare at the woman’s beauty.

  When we’re at the door to his bedroom, I enter but stop because it’s dark. Massimo steps around me to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. He struts back to me and guides me to the foot of the bed. His hands caress my arms, across my hips, landing at the hem of my shirt. I want him to remove it but am also self-conscious about my belly.

  Instead, I reach for his shirt and tug on it, wanting to help him lift it off. His chest is firm; short, dark hair covers his pecs and meets in the center, with a trail that goes right down the middle of his abs, disappearing into his pants. His belly is flat, but there isn’t a six-pack there, which is how I’d imagined him considering his arms are toned, and his T-shirts are always snug around his biceps.

  I place kisses along his chest from right to left, ending on the tattoo covering his left bicep. Black ink covers his upper left arm—a laurel wreath that meets at the top then circles down with a black rose in the middle.

  Before I can ask about his ink, he says, “Lena, let me see how beautiful you are.” His hands lift my head so I can meet his eyes. I reach up and rest my wrists around his neck, and I kiss him.

  I want to taste him, let him ignite the passion simmering inside me so that I don’t think so much about getting undressed. He returns my kisses, his lips soft and pliant. My hands explore his torso, fingers swirling over his skin.

  Massimo’s hands are on my breasts, rubbing and teasing them. The burning sensation in between my legs intensifies with each touch and kiss, stoking the fire within me. It’s giving me the courage to peel my shirt off, tossing it on the bed. Feelings of doubt linger, causing me to cross my arms over my front.

  “Are you shy?”


  “A little.” I nod.

  He places a finger at my chin, raising my eyes to his. “You shouldn’t be. You’re so beautiful.” Massimo lifts his hands and brushes his fingers along my clavicle and down the center of my chest. When his hands meet my arms, he uncrosses them so that they fall to my sides. He cups my breasts and runs his thumbs over the swell spilling over my bra. His lips find the beauty mark on my cheek and linger there before placing a trail of kisses down my jawline, my neck, my chest until he’s kneeling with his mouth at my waistband.

  I thread my hands into his hair. “Massimo, please.” I swallow hard; the flutters are a firestorm of fury, want, and need.

  “Please what, Lena? Tell me what you want.”

  “You.”

  “You already have me. You’ll need to be more specific.” My skin burns in the wake of his kisses.

  “To feel.”

  He pops the button of my jeans open, pulling the zipper, and shimmies them down my legs until they’re lying on the floor. Once he removes them, he tugs my socks off, one at a time, and runs his fingers along the underside of each foot, causing a shiver to run up each leg when he does.

  I feel exposed, standing in my panties and bra with Massimo at my feet.

  Consuming me with his eyes.

  Exploring me with his hands.

  Tasting me with his tongue.

  I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is Massimo, not my past.

  My eyes open and I push my bra straps down. He smiles, exposing his canine teeth—teeth I want him to bite me with.

  “Are you ready for me to remove these?” he asks, snapping the elastic of my panties. I nod in approval, and he slides them off me. When he removes them, he brings them up to his face, inhaling their scent, my scent, and tosses them to the side. Heat rises to my cheeks at his gesture.

  Massimo stands and guides me to the bed where I sit leaning back on my elbows, watching him. He unbuckles his jeans, letting them drop to the floor, and pulls down his white briefs. His erection springs free, standing at attention, and he strokes himself as he stares at me. It’s thick and beautiful, the tip glistening with his arousal. Before climbing onto the bed, he opens the nightstand drawer, grabs a condom, and tosses it to my left.

  He kisses the area below my belly button, moves to my left hip, and gently bites the skin before moving to my other hip and doing the same. He runs his tongue up my torso until he lands at my bra, taking the bra’s fabric in his teeth. At that, I rise and unclasp the back of it, removing it, letting my breasts free from their confines. My nipples are engorged from the arousal he’s awoken within me, and he takes one in his mouth, bites and sucks on it, then moves over to my other breast to do the same.

  “Your curves, they’re fucking beautiful. You’re delicious, and I want to devour you.” He’s licking and tasting my skin as he travels toward my mouth, where he begins to kiss me greedily. His kisses are intense like he’s worried that if he stops, he won’t be able to start again.

  Massimo pulls back from me, extending his hand to grab the condom he tossed onto the bed and rips it open. I watch as he squeezes the tip of it between his forefinger and thumb. Before rolling it down his swollen length, he gives me a fleeting look and smirks. Once in place, he straddles and hovers over me. His kisses are ravenous. His fingers find my folds, begin rubbing, and I mewl in response to his touch.

  “You’re nice and wet for me, Lena.” His gaze is intense as he guides himself to my entrance, sliding into me. “Fuck, you’re wicked tight,” he says, unable to control his eyes from rolling up.

  He enters me, stretching me with a slight sting as he does. “Massimo, ahhh,” I moan.

  He stops, brushes his fingers across my cheek, and asks, “Am I hurting you?”

  “No. You feel so good, just slowly, please.”

  “Slow, like this?” He glides in, inch by inch, and his stare is so intense that I close my eyes. My body is an inferno of heat that blazes with each of Massimo’s measured strokes.

  “Lena, open your eyes, sweetheart. I want to see you, watch as you come undone for me.”

  I open my eyes to his, glowing with need and desire. My legs adjust, and I bend them to place my feet on the bed so that I can raise my hips to meet his thrusts. I grip his waist, pulling him deeper into me and the throbbing begins to intensify. Massimo’s thrusts are steady; each one fills me and drags with each outstroke. My body is overwhelmed with the physical sensation of feeling him buried inside of me. His eyes glisten, and my breathing is heavy as the tingling at my apex strengthens. Pleasure consumes me as I climb to my peak and spiral into orgasm, struggling to keep my eyes open.

  “Is that what you wanted to feel, sweetheart?” Massimo continues his rhythm as the orgasm rocks through me. He lowers his head, takes my left nipple in his mouth, and sucks on it while he drags his length in and out of me. Sweat beads at his forehead, and I lift my hands to squeeze his buttocks, to intensify his plunges. He lifts his head back up, his eyes meeting mine again.

  “Massimo,” I say. My hips move with his, my hands gripping him until he’s fully seated within me. I run my nails up his back, and that causes him to come undone, pleasure blazing from his eyes as they roll up.

  “Ohhhh, Lena.” His orgasm hits him like a wave that crests; he rides it with slow, measured strokes. He continues to move gently, grinding his hips in a circular motion, kissing my nose, my lips, my jawline. Our breathing is heavy.

  Massimo’s body collapses and he lies on top of me. Our bodies are slick with sweat; the salty smell of sex fills the room around us.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, lifting his head.

  “No. I’m way better than okay. My body feels like Jell-O right now,” I say, smiling.

  “Mmm, I’d eat that Jell-O.” He grins, kissing the underside of my jaw.

  “I bet you would.”

  Massimo lifts his body away from mine and pulls out of me. A rush of cold air hits me when he does. I watch him walk out of the room as he’s removing the condom. I find the corner of the sheet and drag it up, covering myself.

  When he returns from the bathroom, he kneels on the bed, crawling across it, and hovering over me. “What did you say to me earlier in Spanish?”

  I lick my lips, and while touching his mouth, I say, “I like you a lot and want to kiss you.”

  “I think I can accommodate that. You think this old man can handle it?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s see.” I giggle and bite my bottom lip.

  He leans in to kiss me again.

  The smell of coffee wafts through the air, and when I look to my left, the bed is empty. Massimo must be in the other room because I hear him talking to someone.

  I stretch. My legs are sore after having sex several times last night. It’s the kind of sore I could get used to. As I remember our night, my skin tingles. Massimo was able to draw my orgasm from me several times. He knew when to be gentle and when not to be. He played my body like a fine-tuned guitar.

  I pull the covers back and reach for my glasses on the nightstand. I’m wearing Massimo’s T-shirt, which I slept in last night. It smells like the cologne he was wearing. I pad my way to the bathroom just outside his bedroom door. As I’m in there, I hear him yell, “Fuck, Stella, I don’t know but just deal with it! I’ll be there later.”

  Stella, who’s that? And why is he so upset with her? Ugh, is he in a relationship with someone? Great, just what I need. I leave the bathroom and head to the kitchen where Massimo is standing by the stove shirtless and barefoot. His shorts hang low, exposing his deep V.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  “Hi, beautiful.” He kisses me.

  I fix my frames to sit squarely on the bridge of my nose and ask, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I heard you talking to someone. You sounded upset.”

  “Oh, yeah. I was on the phone with my sister. She’s having some issues at the restaurant, but not
hing that can’t wait. I’ll deal with it later.”

  His sister, phew! What a relief. I was beginning to think I was played last night. Glad I was wrong. “You got any coffee?”

  “Yeah, I just brewed it. Mugs are in that cabinet,” he says, pointing to the back-right corner farthest away from me.

  “Thanks.” I walk over to the cabinet, opening it to grab a mug. “Do you need one too?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, thanks. Cream is in the fridge, and the sugar is in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

  “I drink my coffee black but can prepare yours. How do you like it?”

  “I like it many different ways.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “I remember,” I say, biting my lip.

  He stops what he’s doing and stares at me, licking his lips before responding, “Two sugars and just a little bit of cream.”

  I pour our coffee into the mugs and prepare his. When I sip it, it’s weak, tastes like dirty water, and I scrunch my nose.

  “Is my coffee terrible?”

  “Kinda,” I say, nodding. “It’s not strong at all.”

  “I can make another pot.”

  “Nah, I’m good. I can have some more when I get home. I’m a coffee snob, so it’s nothing personal.”

  “Okay. Now I know, next time I’ll let you make the coffee.”

  “Next time?” I ask, happy to hear him say those words.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Man Like That

  MARIALENA

  THE RAIN IS HEAVY as we’re driving west down Storrow Drive toward my apartment. The radio is playing softly, and we’re both quiet, listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing “Californication.”

  “You ever been to California?” he asks.

  “Not yet. It’s on my list.”

  “It’s beautiful. I’ll take you someday. You’ll love it.”

  “How presumptuous of you.” I try to keep my tone serious but am not doing a very good job at it.

  “Not presumptuous because I know you and I are just getting started.” His words are confident, yet he’s not arrogant. Last night he was polite yet assertive, gentle yet firm. His mannerisms complement each other. Before yesterday, I had never fully experienced the facets of his personality. When he would sit at the bar, he was friendly and flirtatious yet reserved. I always wondered what he’d be like behind closed doors, and so far, I really like what I’m seeing.