Hearts Series Bundle: Books 1-6

by Sabrina Lacey

No! Please. I don’t want to stop kissing you. My body rages war with my sense of integrity. Please don’t take this chance away from me. I don’t want to stop. Looking away to hide my givaway blues, I mumble, “Maybe we’ve had sex before and you just don’t remember.”

  He chuckles. “If we had sex, I don’t think you’d have forgotten.”

  Instinctively, I counter, “Yeah well, I didn’t think I was so forgettable either.” Kicking myself, I add, “If we had met, I mean. So, we haven’t.” I slide my hand into his jeans and grab his cock with confidence, stroking it. “Do you want me to stop?” I am evil.

  He makes the sexiest noise I’ve ever heard. “No. Don’t stop.”

  I unzip, slide his jeans down to the floor. “Are you sure? Now’s your chance to walk away a free man.” I’m feeling like the worst person ever born, but the second I see his cock, my pussy screams at me to keep going. I have to taste it. I have to. I bend and take it into my mouth, shutting everything else out.

  He grabs onto my head like he can’t help it. His head falls back and he moans as I take all of him into my mouth. I cup the soft fragileness of his sack, toying with it gently. The blood pulsing more and more into his cock is intoxicating. I drive him insane, licking and stroking him, alternating the speed so that when he teeters on the brink of collapse, so close to cumming, I switch gears, slowing down before I build up again, over and over. He yells out, leaning forward and holding onto the wall behind me so he doesn’t fall. I grab his ass with my free hand pulling him back and forth hungrily. I touch the soft space under his sack and he practically yelps. “Oh God! Stop! I won’t be able to hold back. Stop.” Panting, he pushes me back with my mouth open and hungry for him. “Wow. Someone’s had lessons. You’re really good.”

  An unwanted memory of Christiano slinks out from the recesses of my mind. On a whisper, I say, “Am I?” Before now, I’ve never gone down on anyone other than Christiano. If I’m good, it’s because he loved me enough to show me what having a good lover can do to you. He changed my life in so many ways. He made me feel beautiful even when I was a mess.

  My heart beats fast. I’m closing down. Unable to get rid of the realization that if Christiano knew what I was doing, he would die. I stand and close my eyes, laying my hands flat against the wall. I’m losing track of what’s going on. The worlds are blending, Tuscany and San Francisco. Why did he have to remind me of Christiano? I was so good at forgetting about him tonight, until now. But it’s not easy to make four and a half years disappear.

  14

  Annie

  Stomach: Making noises no one should ever have to hear

  ________

  “Mi scusi. Cibo? Umm… negozio…ummm…” Standing in the sunlight with the pale cement sidewalk throwing a glare into my eyes, I frantically thumb through the English/Italian translation book

  The old Italian man sitting with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of red in the other, leans forward as though to hear me better. It’s not my volume that’s the problem. He’s got his ear cocked in my direction. Feeling terribly helpless and dumb, so I thumb faster. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to find it.”

  I hear footsteps and a voice come up behind me. “What are you looking for?”

  Slouched over the book, I look over. My eyes almost fall out of my head. A man with black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and olive, sun-kissed skin, is smiling at me. He looks maybe forty. I’m only twenty-three, but he’s so handsome, all I can think is, wow.

  Standing straighter, I manage a smile back and self-consciously smooth down my black, clipped rat’s nest. “I’m looking for the grocery store. Or whatever you call it, I’m not sure. I need food.”

  He says something in Italian to the older guy, and his voice is really easy on the ears. They seem to know each other. I can’t be sure, though, but they appear to be familiar. If I knew what they were saying, maybe I’d know. People in Tuscany prefer if you speak Italian and I speak none. In Verona, they were nicer, but in Verona I was still thinking of Brendan and Corinne. So I ran. Again.

  Their exchange complete, the handsome stranger offers, “I can show you.”

  I look down at the cement and catch site of my black tights tucked into dirty sneakers. I feel so dingy and dark compared to this man. He’s everything you’d expect of casual elegance. He’s got two buttons open on his white cotton shirt and I sneak a glance at his chest. Just one little glance can’t hurt.

  “Um… that’s very nice of. Grazie.”

  He motions with his hand, this way. Together, we walk in silence for awhile. I’m really not good at talking to new people. Adjusting the strap of my purse out of habit, I hold the translation book to my chest like a shield. But I came here to change, so I force myself to speak first. It feels like someone is presses razors into my eyeballs, it’s so hard. I cough, straining to overcome the dryness in my throat. “Um…Do you live here?”

  He nods. “Did you just arrive?”

  “How did you know?” I stare at the sun’s halo-like light around the edges of his hair.

  “You don’t know where are the stores,” he points out with a jog of his index finger. “I’m not… erm…come si dice?”

  I know that come si dice means how do you say it, so I smile. “Psychic?”

  He nods and repeats as though to memorize the word, “Psychic. Si. Psychic. Psychic.”

  I love his voice. I also love his Roman nose. I find it very appealing that there’s nothing feminine about it. What I want to do is tell him he’s gorgeous, but that would be really bold. If Corinne were here, she’d tell him. She’d probably fuck him right here in the street, too. In broad daylight. With that old lady in an apron and slippers watching. It’s lame, but the second I imagine it, I realize the fact of the matter is, I would LOVE to do something wild like that, so I guess I’m a hypocrite. That’s why I liked her so much; she did things I wanted to do but never could. Like fucking Brendan for example. There I go thinking about it again.

  Struggling to change my thoughts to the present, I say, “Your English is very good.”

  “I studied since childhood.” He glances to me and chuckles. “…a long time ago.”

  Did he say that because he thinks I’m a kid? I’m a woman. I want him to know that.

  “I’m Annie.”

  He bows. Actually bows! “Christiano.”

  As he rises, I blurt out, “I’m not as young as I look.”

  His eyebrows go up, eyes dancing. “No?”

  “No.” Then I roll my eyes. “I am however, just as dorky as I look. I’m working on it.”

  The amusement leaves him. “I know this word. It does not apply to you.” He holds my eyes until he’s sure I heard him. Reluctantly, I nod. This seems to satisfy him. “Come. This way.”

  Thrown by his everything, it takes me a second to follow him. With him a few steps ahead of me, I check out his body and like what I see very, very much. He looks over his shoulder. My eyes fly up too late. He saw me looking for sure. I stare off to the left at nothing in particular, but it’s obvious I’m trying to cover.

  “There is the store.”

  “Okay. Great. Thank you. I mean, Grazie. I’ll see you. Bye.”

  I look over and see the door nestled in between a series of shops, the buildings all touching, almost as one. They’re tall, the color of sand and look like they’ve been here for centuries. They probably have, now that I think about it.

  “Un piacere, Annie.” I think he just said it was a pleasure, or maybe I want to give you pleasure. I know the word pleasure was used.

  “Thank you.”

  Speechless, I stare in amazement as he bows once more, rises and gives me one last smile, then turns and walks away. Whoa. Come back? Scuffling off, I swear to myself for not having bought something prettier to wear already. Why am I still wearing black, black, and more black? Sigh.

  I pick up various bottles of marinara sauce with unknown ingredients, thinking hating yourself is so fucking exhausting. And man does it make you hu
ngry. Searching through the compact aisles, I grab the fixings for bare-bones pasta, just the basics. I’m dying to try something new, but that would take wasting money if I didn’t get it right.

  I need to get a job soon. Maybe if I’d chosen a place that spoke my language, it would have been easier. To make matters worse, I’m terribly lonely. Bending down to grab a bag of bow tie pasta, I think to myself, so basically nothing has changed.

  “No. You cannot do this. It is not right.”

  I look up to see Christiano standing above me. “Oh, hi! You came back!”

  He takes the bottle of sauce out of my hands and puts it on the wrong shelf. “Let me make you a real Italian meal.”

  I look at the bottle sitting out of place among various olive oils, and back to him. “Really?”

  “Come.” He takes the bow tie pasta from me, too, and puts that next to the rejected sauce, also where it’s not supposed to go. I glance down quickly to the bottom shelf where I just got it from, back up to where it is now, thinking how odd it is that he did that. Oddly rebellious. I love it.

  He steps aside and says it again. “Come”

  It’s so assertive, that I walk past him toward the door immediately. The teenager behind the register is still reading his magazine and doesn’t look up. I glance to him, and then look over my shoulder, catching Christiano looking at my ass. Only he doesn’t fall all over himself like I did when I was caught. Instead, he just looks at me. No smile. No shyness.

  “You’re going to cook for me?” I manage, nervously.

  He nods and we walk out into the sunlight. I blink it away until I get used to it. Again we walk in silence, but my nervousness isn’t going anywhere. I don’t know this guy. What am I doing?

  “Um…Where are we going?” I’m hoping he says a restaurant where there are lot of people…and safety.

  “We are going to my kitchen. In my home.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his tan slacks, looking ahead of us. “It is just out of town. We’ll drive. Come.”

  There’s that word again.

  Coming to a halt, I stare at him like he’s nuts. “I’m not going to just drive off with a complete stranger! I know I look young, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  He turns on his heel, the sound loud thanks to my nerves being on end. Saying no can be scary, like you don’t want to hurt a person’s feelings, but come on! I’m not a fucking idiot. So, I stare at him, firmly holding my ground, my lips a thin line.

  He thinks for a moment, and then realizes what’s going on. “You are worried I will hurt you.” The words said out loud are a little hard to hear. It’s a fucked up world that I even have to think of such a thing, but I do.

  “Well, yeah. Can you blame me?”

  He stares at me. I’m expecting him to say forget it, nice meeting you. Goodbye. But he laughs instead. He belly laughs and it’s big and free and infectious. It makes me want to join in, but I have no idea why he’s laughing. I hold back, in case the joke is on me.

  “Come back.” He waves his hand in the direction we just came from and starts walking. Curious, I follow him. At the first little shop, he walks in, beckoning me to follow. “Come!”

  I look in the window and see pretty dresses, mostly summer style and all high quality. I particularly am drawn to the green floor-length sundress on the right. The pink in the middle reminds me of Corinne. And the white one on the left is so unlike anything I’ve ever worn, with lace and mini-cut that I look away and step inside. My eyes take a second to adjust to the quaint lighting to see we’re in a dress shop, old school style. I walk in further to see him talking to a beautiful Italian woman who’s hemming a red knee-length dress.

  “Who am I?”

  She looks at him like he’s crazy. With a thick accent, she asks him, also in English, “Christiano, what is this about?”

  “Who am I, Sophia?” he asks again.

  She pushes her long curly hair back and stands. She is everything I am not – beautiful, exotic, owning every bit of it and adding more. Italian woman work it. They wear the jewelry. They have the hair. They jut the hips. They know how to do it. I stare at her, openly envious and taking notes.

  She laughs, “You’re annoying, that’s what you are,” hitting his shoulder lightly, her hand lingering there.

  “You see? Would a woman like this be teasing me this way, if I were dangerous?” he asks me.

  She swings her attention my way for the first time. With one look, her chocolate, sultry brown eyes rake over me and she turns to him with a question in her eyes. I know I’m a mess, but it’s degrading nonetheless. Dammit.

  He’s still waiting for my answer.

  Feeling inferior more than appeased, I answer, “No. She wouldn’t.”

  He leaves her side and stops to stand directly in front of me. With dresses on either side of us, and me wearing a witch’s wardrobe in the middle, he unbelievably says, “Good. Let’s eat.”

  I wave to her, but she just stares. So I say nothing, turn on my heel and follow him. Why does she have to be like that? She’s obviously the contest winner.

  In Christiano’s kitchen, there’s a middle island where he hums, slicing tomatoes, basil, and garlic cloves into separate piles. There’s a large round table off to the side that seats six, with a vase of red and orange wild flowers from his garden in its center. The window that leads to that garden is right behind me, and I can’t stop turning around to look, even though I can’t see much since the sun went down. When I arrived it was dusk and the garden took my breath away. It’s what I would call, controlled anarchy. Wild flowers were everywhere contained in masses by stone borders that were cut through by winding paths that lead to a fountain. So even though I can’t see it anymore, it’s still in my memory’s imagination. Between looking at the dark window and his home, I feel lucky to have such a wonderful view.

  He seems to be enjoying speaking solely in English and while he’s very good at it, it comes slowly and there are questions. I help, answering things like, “No, we say hot when we mean ‘spicy,’ too. It’s both. But spicy doesn’t have to mean hot.”

  He nods, chopping away and sliding lingering pieces of tomato from the knife into a sizzling cast-iron pan. “When did you arrive in Tuscany?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I feel a little goofy saying I’m staying in a hostel. Maybe if he were my age, it wouldn’t bother me. “Heart of Tuscany Hostel,” I answer, biting my lip and hoping he doesn’t think I’m too young for him. And I can’t stop staring at his hands.

  He hands me a piece of tomato. Feeling daring, I open my mouth. He hesitates, and places it slowly on my tongue. The sweet, juicy ripeness of the fruit makes me close my eyes and moan. When I open them, I find he’s staring at me. Neither of us looks away and it takes him a second to focus back on the meal.

  Chewing on more than the tomato, I lean on my elbows, watching him whip up the most mouth-watering meal I’ve had since I left America. And hell, probably a long while before that, too. I’m actually salivating, so I lean over and dip my finger into the sauce. “Mmm.” The deliciousness closes my eyes again and I’m savoring the delicate balance of herbs and salt. That’s the key – balance. “So good.”

  I sigh and open my eyes. He’s looking at me again, but this time with open desire. I must appear surprised by the way he glances away, not wanting to scare me. But I saw that look. My whole body saw that look. I smooth down my hair and walk to the window, pulse quickening. I was looking out for my safety earlier, and I feel safe now. I do. But that he wants me in a healthy way, man to woman, never occurred to me. Serial killer or rapist I could understand.

  I sneak a peek at him over my shoulder. He’s busy opening a bottle of red. “Would you like wine, Annie?”

  I just nod and watch, waking up to the idea that I could be attractive to a man. This is a first for me. I reach out and touch the glass of the window, see only hints of the beauty on the other side. I feel dreamy, that�
�s the best way to describe it. Like I walked into a picture book where fantasies come true. “I’d love to live here,” I whisper.

  I turn and see him working on the dinner, a glass of wine waiting for me next to him. I walk to it, tucking a short lock of hair behind my ear. I want him to know how I much I needed this feeling. Not just to feel attractive, but for someone to care for me enough to cook me a meal. I miss my family. I miss my only friend, who I lost. I’ve been so lonely.

  “Thank you for this.”

  He stirs the pan. “A zinfandel. Do you like red?”

  “No. Not for the wine. For cooking for me.” I stop, a lump forming in my throat. I look down and take a sip, try to wash it down, but it only gets worse. “I was needing a friend more than I thought.”

  His hand stops circling. The waiting oil sizzles and after a moment, he lowers the heat with a turn of a knob and comes around the island. He doesn’t touch me, but I want him to. “I’d like to be your friend, Bella.”

  I know what bella means. But it’s never been applied to me by anyone besides my parents. With no buffer, no sarcasm, I ask him, “Why?”

  He frowns and searches for the words. “Today… come si dice…”

  “Earlier?” I offer, taking a guess.

  “Si. Earlier. Earlier when I left you, it did not feel good. So I went back to find you. This?” He motions between us. “This feels good. No?”

  “Si,” I answer, feeling I’m butchering even that one short syllable, but wanting to respectfully try. “Very good. This feels very good.”

  My left hand has been resting on the island and he looks over and picks it up, taking it and weaving his fingers with mine while I watch. “Yes. It’s good.”

  He brings me to him with the assuredness of a man who has experience. I let him lead, knowing I know nothing. My lips fall slightly open. His arms go around me and he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. A spattering, sizzling noise tears us apart, our eyes flying to it at the same time. The sauce is going wild, oil spitting out, and crackling like small fireworks. He leaves me quickly to tend to it and I touch my fingers to my lips as I watch. The concentration on his face makes him look more rugged and I love how the muscles of his arms contract and slice against each other as he picks up the wooden spoon and holds the pan high off the burner with a thick towel for protection.