Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  And Cesare didn’t touch her at all. He let her kiss him, and when she pulled back, her heart racing, pounding as if she had just sprinted desperately to catch the last train of the night, he smiled at her, his dark eyes slanting, full of enjoyment.

  ‘So now,’ Devon said, piqued beyond endurance at his self-control, ‘you owe me my ten euros back.’

  He threw back his head and laughed so loudly that the other people in the pool turned to look at him curiously; even by Italian standards, it was a very noisy laugh. He had to wipe tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand; he looked at her again, and clapped, one, two, three times.

  ‘Signora Devon,’ he said, every line on his face creased with amusement, ‘sei meravigliosa. You are marvellous. Come. We go to boil ourselves like aragoste. Lobsters,’ he translated after a moment’s thought.

  He still didn’t touch her, though she was longing for it, for him to take her hand and pull her through the water, maybe to put one hand on her back and guide her. But no, he just indicated the entrance to the big wooden dome she had seen before, a passageway covered with big plastic strips she had to push aside and walk through blind. Inside the dome it was instantly ten degrees hotter still, an open steam room, with a waist-high bath of water at its centre; she stepped down into it and gasped at the heat enveloping her like an embrace.

  ‘This is the percorso,’ Cesare said just behind her, no more than a centimetre away from her back. She could feel his hair tickling the tip of her ear, and it took all the willpower she had not to lean back against him, feel his entire body pressing against her. ‘The journey we take from the cold to the hot. You finish in the hot, and then you jump into the cold again, and then it all begins once more, the journey . . . Ah, bene! Vieni!’

  He gestured over her shoulder to two fountains of water at the far side of the pool, set into a marble slab; the water pouring out was steaming hot, clearly directly from the natural thermal springs which fed this resort. People were standing under both fountains, letting the water pour on their backs, but a group was leaving one. Cutting deftly ahead of another hopeful, Cesare strode across, setting his back against the marble slab, indicating that Devon follow him.

  The other fountain was occupied by a couple, young and totally absorbed with each other; the boy was standing where Cesare was, the girl facing him, embracing him, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her slim, tanned waist. God knew what they were doing, half-hidden from the rest of the world by the constant silver stream of thermal water, by the hot steam rising around them. It was a deeply erotic sight, and Devon longed to be in Cesare’s arms, just like that, wound tightly against him. As she watched, the boy’s hand slid slowly down the girl’s body, to the base of her spine, then under the white water, opaque as pearly stained glass. The girl gasped and wrapped herself even closer to her lover.

  ‘Devon! Vieni qua!’ Cesare was calling, rather crossly now. She could hardly see him through the flow of water in front of him and desperately, not wanting to seem like she was begging for a kiss, she turned around and backed into the fountain instead, the water hitting her shoulders with an impact that almost winded her.

  Cesare’s arms came round her waist, pulling her against him, arranging her so that the water streamed down her back.

  ‘Perfetto,’ he said, his mouth against her ear. ‘The hot water is for here . . .’ One hand came away from her waist and traced a line over both shoulders. ‘Le spalle. And for the scapole . . .’ His finger ran across her shoulder blades. ‘And the spina dorsale . . . to make better any stress . . .’

  His hand slid down once more to her waist, pulling her between his legs, wrapping around her.

  ‘You have stress now, Devon?’ he whispered into her ear.

  Everywhere was hot and wet; the touch of his lips on her skin was one more sensation streaming down her like the torrent of water. His mouth closed on her ear, his teeth a light pressure that made her moan softly and arch against him, her bottom moving against something hard between his legs, something which made it very clear that Cesare was, indeed, a grower. Her eyes closed in utter pleasure. She was leaning against Cesare, Cesare against the wall, the marble that was no harder than him. If he’d wanted to, he could have had sex with her then and there, slipped his fingers under her swimsuit, pulled it to one side, slid himself up and into her, and all she would have done was brace her legs and try not to scream with ecstasy.

  His hands were in her hair now, stroking her scalp, massaging it, the tips of his fingers cleverly finding all the points on her skull that craved to be touched. It was the most sensual experience, a scalp massage. And a scalp massage under hot thermal springs, in the arms of a man you were attracted to as you had never been attracted to a man in your life . . . it was transcendent. Everything seemed to fall away. The disaster she’d made for herself in England, her career, her weight, her marriage, poured off her like the steaming cascade of opalescent white water.

  Her worries about Deeley, whether she would be OK, what her younger sister could say about her childhood, about Bill, streamed away too; who cared what had happened all those years ago? Nobody. If they did find Bill, the McKenna sisters would tell their story, tell the truth, and everyone would understand. Maxie worried too much. Maxie worried for all of them, and Devon had not only let her, she’d allowed Maxie’s worries to dominate her life. Well, no more. No more worrying. Deeley would find her way through life, would find a nice guy, and hopefully some sort of job that made her happy. Everything would work itself out, if she’d only let things pour over her like pounding cascades of hot water.

  Devon had been so ambitious all these years, worried about the future, driven to succeed, to make her glittering career; television, books, spin-off merchandise, she’d achieved everything on which she’d set her sights. The perfect husband, the wonderful house. And now, at this moment, none of that seemed to matter at all. Devon relinquished her iron grip on ambition without even a sigh of regret.

  Cesare’s strong hands in her hair, massaging her temples, then working out the tension in her neck as her head sank forward, were the only thing she could focus upon, the only thing that mattered. She could leave everything in England behind without looking back, become Cesare’s mistress as long as it lasted, say goodbye to everything she’d once thought was important.

  Her forehead smoothed out, her face became utterly serene. It felt as if there weren’t a knot left in her shoulders; Cesare was gripping them now, shaking her very gently, easing out any last wisps of stress that might remain, any regrets, any glances back at past mistakes. By the time he said that they were done, that other people were waiting to take their place under the fountains, she was a husk of herself, her eyes dreamy, her lips curved in a smile of utter relaxation. They ran back down to the big pool and jumped in, screaming, to cool themselves back down.

  Devon had entirely forgotten any consciousness about her body flaws and now all she could do was smile. She smiled as they wrapped themselves once more in their robes and walked up the flight of steps to the bar, where Cesare bought them each a glass of spumante, dry sparkling wine. They stood out on the balcony, sipping it in contented silence, watching the sun set behind the far hills in streaks of Campari red and blood orange. She smiled as she pulled on her clothes in the changing room, ran a brush through her hair and pinned it back, as she outlined her eyes briefly with a dark pencil, brushed some mascara onto her lashes and some gloss onto her lips, and was done in five minutes, too relaxed to battle the other women there for mirrors and hairdryers. She even smiled as Cesare sent the Lamborghini flying down the Siena road on the way back, the speedometer easily reaching 150 kilometres per hour, other cars whipping out of the fast lane at his approach, headlights flashing impatiently. And she smiled when he thrust the car into a probably illegal parking space in front of a police station in a little village called Castellina-in-Chianti, jumped out, and came round to the passenger door to hand her out, saying cheerfully, ‘Now, we eat the best p
izza in Chianti!’

  ‘Pizza!’ Devon said happily. ‘I’m starving. How did you know?’

  He shrugged, taking her arm and wrapping it through his as they walked up a little cobbled street and into a pretty little square. It was dark now, and soft lights glimmered in shop windows, highlighting antique sideboards and modern steel Alessi gadgets.

  ‘I am starving,’ he said. ‘So it is time to eat.’

  The pizzeria was set in a high stone arch, a deep pizza oven built into one corner; it was warmly lit, decorated with wine bottles from floor to ceiling, and had a huge buffet table in the centre piled with plates of different antipasti. Devon drank red wine and nibbled on sundried tomatoes and slices of ham until their pizzas arrived. Cesare had ordered for them: Devon’s was simply fresh mozzarella and freshly made tomato sauce, sprinkled with basil leaves, the golden oil of the mozzarella staining the crispy edges of the pizza. It was as wide as a wheel and as thin as a sheet of paper. She moaned repeatedly in pleasure as she ate it, which brought an extremely smug expression to Cesare’s face.

  ‘I tell you it is the best pizza in Chianti,’ he said complacently, tucking into his own. ‘But maybe it is the best in all Toscana. Il Fondaccio, this place is called. Veramente delizioso, non é vero?’

  Devon nodded, her mouth full. I must learn Italian, she thought. Rory has some books and CDs at the villa. I’ll start tomorrow. Tomorrow . . . Her eyelids fluttered as she imagined the night that would pass before the sun came up the next morning. She had thought of nothing else since Cesare drew her under the fountain in the hot pool. Of what they would do together, all night, alone in Villa Clara. The anticipation was exquisite. She drank more red wine, and for dessert spooned up a lemon sorbet served in half a lemon, sliced lengthways and hollowed out; with it they served her a limoncello, lemon liqueur, bright yellow from infused lemon rind, sweet and tangy like the sorbet. She was floating as Cesare settled the bill and took her back to the car.

  He drove a little slower now, down the long switchback of curving road to the river at the bottom of the hill that was the border between the provinces of Siena and Florence; he steered the car with perfect efficiency, a couple of fingers on the wheel, a flick of the other hand on the gearstick, up the equally steep hill on the other side of the bridge, to Greve-in-Chianti and the cypress-lined drive of Villa Clara.

  He helped her out of the car and walked her, arm in arm, to the big wooden door of the villa, and waited while she fumbled in her bag for the door key and put it in the lock. As the door swung open, he turned her towards him, hands on her shoulders, and pressed her against the stone doorjamb. She looked up at him in the moonlight, still floating on the red wine and the liqueur as if she were drifting on the hot waters of Rapolano Terme, and saw his head come down to hers, the wild tangle of his curls silhouetted against the night sky. Her head tipped back, her lips parted; she was ready for his kiss, had been ready for hours, welcomed his mouth on hers, his tongue sliding confidently, possessively between her lips, as if they had kissed many times before. Cesare had no hesitation about anything, it was clear. He kissed her without a single moment of question, of waiting for consent. He kissed her like a conqueror taking possession of territory which has already surrendered to him.

  And Devon kissed him back with all the passion that had built up in her over the last months, maybe even years, of denying herself and denying Matt. She felt completely released, completely free. No self-consciousness, no withholding; she pressed her body against him without worrying for a second that he might think her breasts were too big, or feel the paunch of her stomach. She wrapped her arms around his neck, felt his hairs crispy beneath her fingers. His stubble rasped at her soft skin, but she didn’t care; she wanted the sensation, craved it, dragged him even closer to her, cried aloud with pleasure as he kissed down her jawline and buried his head in her neck, his lips hot as fire as they bit and teased her skin, his stubble scraping like sandpaper, the stone blocks of wall behind her digging into her, holding her up.

  ‘Madonna,’ Cesare gasped into her neck. ‘Madonna santa . . .’

  His hands were in her hair, gripping, twisting, reminding her so powerfully of the scalp massage he had given her earlier that she was almost fainting with the remembered sensation. Their rasping, panting breath was the only sound in the whole night around them. They were utterly alone. Devon wanted to fuck right there, pull down her jeans, have Cesare drive into her against the stone pillar . . . No, I weigh too much, he couldn’t pick me up, I could sit on the wall, we could fuck like that, out here in the moonlight, I could wrap my legs around him . . . She writhed against him at the thought, picturing the two of them having sex so vividly that she felt Cesare’s rigid cock throb against her through his jeans, working itself between her legs, which parted immediately for him; he pushed her even closer to the wall, slamming her into it, his hands twined in hers now, kissing her mouth so hard they were bruising each other, the backs of her hands against the stone, above her head, Cesare’s fingers wrapped so tightly through hers it felt as if something were about to break . . .

  ‘Oh Dio, Madonna mia . . .’ he said against her mouth, like a desperate prayer, and dragged his head back enough to gasp in some breath, put a little distance between them. He lowered his hands, bringing hers down too, and turned them, kissing each of her fingers in turn before releasing them, stepping back.

  ‘Vai dentro, Devon,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Go inside, OK?’

  Devon stared up at him, utterly confused and frustrated, her entire body throbbing for release.

  ‘But . . .’ she started, not knowing what to say, but most definitely wanting to register a protest.

  ‘I see you tomorrow,’ he said, taking a long, deep breath. ‘We go to dinner. Like civilized people, not peasants who fuck against a house, OK?’

  He looked down at her for a long moment, drawing his thumb slowly across her lips. Devon bit at it crossly, and Cesare winced in pleasure.

  ‘Cattiva,’ he muttered. ‘Bad girl.’

  Devon licked the tip of his thumb, and groaning now, Cesare reluctantly withdrew it from her mouth.

  ‘We are not peasants,’ he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. ‘Cazzo di Jesu.’

  ‘I am,’ Devon muttered. ‘I am a peasant.’

  But Cesare was already turning her, pushing her inside the villa, sending her on her way with a firm slap to her bottom.

  ‘A domani, bella,’ he called. ‘I see you tomorrow. Dress smart – I take you somewhere nice, not a pizzeria.’

  Typical of him, Devon thought sourly as he shut the big wooden door behind her with a definite slam. He can’t even say goodbye without telling me what to wear next time he sees me.

  She was burning up with sexual frustration, unable to believe that Cesare had gone so far, turned her on so much and then abandoned her like this, on fire. She ran up the stairs, threw herself on her bed and pulled her jeans and knickers down to her knees; she was wet for him, dripping wet, and as soon as her fingers slid between her legs she started to cry out with her first orgasm. She came and came, lying on the big white bed, moonlight drifting through the windows, outlining the shadows of the silver birches beyond the lawn outside. She pictured herself and Cesare fucking under the hot springs, against the wall outside, on the staircase, her gripping onto the iron rail as he drove into her; on this bed, her straddling him, holding down his hands as he had just done with hers. She cried out again and again, like an incantation, imagining the sound of her orgasms echoing across the valley to his house, driving him as crazy as he was driving her. On the inside of her closed lids she saw him with his hand wrapped around his cock, imagining it was her palm rising and falling, making him gasp as he came, wishing he were deep inside her, her mouth, her pussy.

  She only stopped when she was beginning to hurt herself, when she had come so many times that she was almost bruised from the endless friction. He can’t do that, she thought triumphantly, collapsing back onto the white li
nen of the pillows, utterly exhausted. He can’t have so many orgasms that he couldn’t even count them up if he tried. It felt like a victory over him that she relished; he might have decided that they weren’t going to have sex tonight, but she had taken a kind of revenge by glutting herself with pleasure.

  And tomorrow, she told herself, making a resolution as she fell asleep, I’ll make him wait for it like he’s making me wait now. I’ll make him beg and plead and crawl to me. Today he took me by surprise; tomorrow I’ll be in charge. I’ll turn the tables on him.

  The only problem was that she genuinely thought she might go mad waiting for him.

  Deeley

  As soon as the plane had taken off, circling over Jersey before heading back over the Channel, Deeley’s stay there had seemed like a dream, which faded with disappointing speed as soon as the dreamer awoke. To her surprise, after a few days being cocooned in the luxury of the Grand, with nothing to do but eat, sleep, walk on the beach, and take long scented showers in the spa, she had found herself getting restless. Real life was waiting for her back in London, with all its stresses and messy complications; she would have to face it sooner or later. And she couldn’t live like a princess forever, spending money as if it were water without ever checking the state of her bank account.

  Jeff had left the day before, off to Cologne, Dusseldorf and Berlin on a business trip. He had been a wonderful companion, and they had dined together every evening, but, apart from a few brief kisses, nothing more had happened. Jeff had taken her number and pressed all of his contact details upon her; he’d ring, he said, as soon as he got back to London.

  Deeley hoped he would. But right now, poor Jeff had been relegated to a distant cubbyhole at the back of her mind. Somewhere to live, she thought firmly. And a job. I have to get settled, start earning some money, stand on my own two feet.

  And get out of Devon and Matt’s basement.